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WASHINGTON  IRVING 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  and 
MOORISH  CHRONICLES 

By  Washington  Irving 


BOSTON  COLLEGE  Liukmk» 

CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 


R.  F.  FENNO  & COMPANY:  PUB- 
LISHERS : 9 & ii  E.  SIXTEENTH 
STREET  : NEW  YORK  CITY  : 1900 


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PREFACE. 


C 


In  the  course  of  a revised  edition  of  my  works  I have  come 
to  a biographical  sketch  of  Goldsmith,  published  several  years 
since.  It  was  written  hastily,  as  introductory  to  a selection 
from  his  writings ; and,  though  the  facts  contained  in  it  were 
collected  from  various  sources,  I was  chiefly  indebted  for  them 
to  the  voluminous  work  of  Mr.  James  Prior,  who  had  collected 
and  collated  the  most  minute  particulars  of  the  poet’s  history 
with  unwearied  research  and  scrupulous  fidelity ; but  had  ren- 
dered them,  as  I thought,  in  a form  too  cumbrous  and  overlaid 
with  details  and  disquisitions,  and  matters  uninteresting  to  the 
general  reader. 

When  I was  about  of  late  to  revise  my  biographical  sketch, 
preparatory  to  republication,  a volume  was  put  into  xsy  hands, 
recently  given  to  the  public  by  Mr.  John  Forster,  of  the  Inner 
Temple,  who,  likewise  availing  himself  of  the  labors  of  the  in- 
defatigable Prior,  and  of  a few  new  lights  since  evolved,  has 
produced  a biography  of  the  poet,  executed  with  a spirit,  a 
feeling,  a grace  and  an  eloquence,  that  leave  nothing  to  be  de- 
sired. Indeed  it  would  have  been  presumption  in  me  to  under- 
take the  subject  after  it  had  been  thus  felicitously  treated,  did 
I not  stand  committed  by  my  previous  sketch.  That  sketch 
now  appeared  too  meagre  and  insufficient  to  satisfy  public  de- 
mand ; yet  it  had  to  take  its  place  in  the  revised  series  of  my 
works  unless  something  more  satisfactory  could  be  substituted. 
Under  these  circumstances  I have  again  taken  up  the  subject, 
and  gone  into  it  with  more  fulness  than  formerly,  omitting 
none  of  the  facts  which  I considered  illustrative  of  the  life  and 
character  of  the  poet,  and  giving  them  in  as  graphic  a style  as 
I could  command.  Still  the  hurried  manner  in  which  I have 
had  to  do  this  amidst  the  pressure  of  other  claims  on  my  atten- 
tion, and  with  the  press  dogging  at  my  heels,  has  prevented 
me  from  giving  some  parts  of  the  subject  the  thorough  han- 
Iling  I could  have  wished.  Those  who  would  like  to  see  it 


4 


VREFA  CK. 


treated  still  more  at  large,  with  the  addition  of  critical  disqui- 
sitions and  the  advantage  of  collateral  facts,  would  do  well  to 
refer  themselves  to  Mr.  Prior’s  circumstantial  volumes,  or  to 
the  elegant  and  discursive  pages  of  Mr.  Forster. 

For  my  own  part,  I can  only  regret  my  short-comings  in 
what  to  me  is  a labor  of  love;  for  it  is  a tribute  of  gratitude  to 
the  memory  of  an  author  whose  writings  were  the  delight  of 
my  childhood,  and  have  been  a source  of  enjoyment  to  me 
throughout  life ; and  to  wdiom,  of  all  others,  I may  address  the 
beautiful  apostrophe  of  Dante  to  Virgil: 

Tu  se1  lo  mio  maestro,  e ’1  mio  autore: 

Tu  se1  solo  colui,  da  cu’  io  tolsi 
Lo  bello  stile,  che  in’  ha  fato  onore. 


fcUNNYSIDE,  Aug.  1,  1849. 


w.  i. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


> 


COETEETS. 


Preface , 


PAGE 

..  8 


CHAPTER  I. 

Birth  and  parentage. — Characteristics  of  the  Goldsmith  race.— Poetical  birth- 
place.— Goblin  house. — Scenes  of  boyhood. — Lissoy. — Picture  of  a country  par- 
son.— Goldsmith’s  schoolmistress.— Byrne,  the  village  schoolmaster.  — Gold- 
smith’s hornpipe  and  epigram.— Uncle  Contarine.— School  studies  and  school 
sports.— Mistakes  of  a night 11 


CHAPTER  n. 

Improvident  marriages  in  the  Goldsmith  family. — Goldsmith  at  the  University. 

— Situation  of  a sizer. — Tyranny  of  Wilder,  the  tutor. — Pecuniary  straits. — 
Street  ballads. — College  riots. — Gallows  Walsh.— College  prize.— A dance  inter- 
rupted  2# 


CHAPTER  HI. 

Goldsmith  rejected  by  the  bishop. — Second  sally  to  see  the  world. — Takes  pas- 
sage for  America. — Ship  sails  without  him. — Return  on  Fiddle-back. — A hos- 
pitable friend. — The  counsellor.  30 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Sallies  forth  as  a law  student. — Stumbles  at  the  outset. — Cousin  Jane  and  the 
valentine. — A family  oracle. — Sallies  forth  as  a student  of  medicine. — Hocus- 
pocus  of  a boarding-house. — Transformations  of  a leg  of  mutton.— The  mock 
ghost. — Sketches  of  Scotland. — Trials  of  Toryism. — A poet’s  purse  for  a Conti- 
nental tour 35 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  agreeable  fellow-passengers.— Risks  from  friends  picked  up  by  the  wayside. 
—Sketches  of  Holland  and  the  Dutch. — Shifts  while  a poor  student  at  Leyden. 
—The  tulip  speculation.— The  provident  flute.— Sojourn  at  Paris. — Sketch  of 
Voltaire.— Travelling  shifts  of  a philosophic  vagabond 44 


i 


6 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

PAG* 

Landing  in  England.— Shifts  of  a man  without  money.— The  pestle  and  mortar. 

— Theatricals  in  a barn.— Launch  upon  London. — A city  night  scene. — Strug- 
gles with  penury. — Miseries  of  a tutor. — A doctor  in  the  suburb. — Poor 
practice  and  second-hand  finery. — A tragedy  in  embryo.— Project  of  the 
written  mountains 52 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Life  of  a pedagogue.— Kindness  to  schoolboys — pertness  in  return. — Expensive 
charities.— The  Griffiths  and  the  “ Monthly  Review.” — Toils  of  a literary  hack. 

— Rupture  with  the  Griffiths t% 


CHAPTER  VIH. 

Newbery,  of  picture-book  memory.— How  to  keep  up  appearances.— Miseries 
of  authorship.— A poor  relation.— Letter  to  Hodson  60 

CHAPTER  IX. 

Hackney  authorship.— Thoughts  of  literary  suicide.— Return  to  Peckham.— 
Oriental  projects.— Literary  enterprise  to  raise  funds.— Letter  to  Edward 
Wells— to  Robert  Bryanton. — Death  of  Uncle  Contarine. — Letter  to  Cousin 
Jane 65 


CHAPTER  X. 

Oriental  appointment— and  disappointment.— Examination  at  the  College  of 
Surgeons. — How  to  procure  a suit  of  clothes. — Fresh  disappointment. — A tale 
of  distress. — The  suit  as  clothes  in  pawn. — Punishment  for  doing  an  act  of 
charity.— Gayeties  of  Green- Arbor  Court. —Letter  to  his  brother. — Life  of  Vol- 
taire.— Scroggins,  an  attempt  at  mock  heroic  poetry 72 

CHAPTER  XI. 

Publication  of  “The  Inquiry.” — Attacked  by  Griffith’s  Review.—  Kenrick,  the 
literary  Ishmaelite. — Periodical  literature.— Goldsmith’s  essays.— Garrick  as  a 
manager. — Smollett  and  his  schemes. — Change  of  lodgings.— The  Robin  Hood 

Club 83 

f 

CHAPTER  XII. 

New  lodgings. — Visits  of  ceremony.— Hangers-on. — Pilkington  and  the  white 
mouse. — Introduction  to  Dr.  Johnson. — Davies  and  his  bookshop. — Pretty  Mrs. 
Davies.— Foote  and  his  projects.— Criticism  of  the  cudgel 88 

CHAPTER  XIH. 

Oriental  projects. — Literary  jobs  — The  Cherokee  chiefs.— Meny  Islington  and 
the  White  Conduit  House. — Letters  on  the  History  of  England.— James  Bos- 
well.—Dinner  of  Davies. — Anecdotes  of  Johnson  and  Goldsmith 93 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

Hogarth  a visitor  at  Islington— his  character.— Street  studies.— Sympathies  be- 
tween authors  and  painters. — Sir  Joshua  Reynolds — his  character — his  dinners 
— The  Literary  Club — its  members. — Johnson’s  revels  with  Lanky  and  Beau. — 
Goldsmith  at  the  club ® 


CONTENTS. 


7 


CHAPTER  XV. 

PAGH 

Johnson  a monitor  to  Goldsmith— finds  him  in  distress  with  his  landlady — re- 
lieved by  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield. — The  oratorio. — Poem  of  the  Traveller. 

The  poet  and  his  dog.— Success  of  the  poem.— Astonishment  of  the  club.— Ob- 
servations on  the  poem 105 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

New  lodgings.— Johnson’s  compliment.— A titled  patron.— The  poet  at  Northum- 
berland House.— His  independence  of  the  great.— The  Countess  of  Northum- 
berland.—Edwin  and  Angelina.— Gosford  and  Lord  Clare.— Publication  of 
Essays.— Evils  of  a rising  reputation.— Hangers-on.— Job  writing.— Goody  - 
Two-shoes. — A medical  campaign. — Mrs.  Sidebotham Ml 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

Publication  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield— opinions  concerning  it— of  Dr.  Johnson 
—of  Rogers  the  poet— of  Goethe— its  merits.— Exquisite  extract.— Attack  by 


Kenrick.— Reply.— Book-building.— Project  of  a comedy 117 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

8ocial  condition  of  Goldsmith— his  colloquial  contests  with  Johnson.— Anecdotes 
and  illustrations 123 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Social  resorts.— The  shilling  whist  club. —A  practical  joke.— The  Wednesday 
club. — The  “ tun  of  man.” — The  pig  butcher. — Tom  King. — Hugh  Kelly. — 
Glover  and  his  characteristics 128 

CHAPTER  XX. 

The  Great  Cham  of  literature  and  the  King.— Scene  at  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds’.— 
Goldsmith  accused  of  jealousy. — Negotiations  with  Garrick.— The  author  and 
the  actor— their  correspondence  131 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

More  hack  authorship. — Tom  Davies  and  the  Roman  History. — Canonbury  Cas- 
tle.—Political  authorship. — Pecuniary  temptation.— Death  of  Newbery  the 
elder 13# 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

Theatrical  manoeuvring. — The  comedy  of  “ False  Delicacy.” — First  perform- 
ance of  “The  Good-natured  Man.”— Conduct  of  Johnson.— Conduct  of  the 
author.— Intermeddling  of  the  press 3 39 

CHAPTER  XXIH. 

Burning  the  candle  at  both  ends. — Fine  apartments.— Fine  furniture.— Fine 
clothes.— Fine  acquaintances.— Shoemaker’s  holiday  and  jolly  pigeon  asso- 
ciates.—Peter  Barlow,  Glover,  and  the  Hampstead  hoax. — Poor  friends  among 
great  acquaintances  143 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Reduced  again  to  book-building. — Rural  retreat  at  Shoemaker’s  Paradise. — 
Death  of  Henry  Goldsmith— tributes  to  his  memory  in  the  Deserted  Village. . . 147 


8 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

PAQK 

Dinner  at  Biekerstaff’s. — HifTernan  and  his  impecuniosity.— Kenrick’s  epigram. 
Johnson’s  consolation. — Goldsmith’s  toilet. — The  bloom-colored  coat.— New 
acquaintances.— The  Hornecks.— A touch  of  poetry  and  passion.— The  Jesse- 
my  Bride 149 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Goldsmith  in  the  Temple.— Judge  Day  and  Grattan.— Labor  and  dissipation.— 
Publication  of  the  Roman  History. — Opinions  of  it. — History  of  Animated 
Nature. — Temple  rookery. — Anecdotes  of  a spider 154 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Honors  at  the  Royal  Academy.— Letter  to  his  brother  Maurice.— Family  for- 
tunes.—Jane  Contarine  and  the  miniature.— Portraits  and  engravings. — School 


associations.— Johnson  and  Goldsmith  in  Westminster  Abbey 161 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Publication  of  the  Deserted  Village— notices  and  illustrations  of  it 165 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 


The  poet  among  the  ladies — description  of  his  person  and  manners.— Expedition 
to  Paris  with  the  Horneck  family. — The  traveller  of  twenty  and  the  traveller 
of  forty.— Hickey,  the  special  attorney.— An  unlucky  exploit 170 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

Death  of  Goldsmith’s  toother. — Biography  of  Parnell.— Agreement  with  Davies 
for  the  History  of  Rome.— Life  of  Bolingbroke.— The  haimch  of  venison 178 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Dinner  at  the  Royal  Academy.— The  Rowley  controversy. — Horace  Walpole’s 
conduct  to  Chatterton. — Johnson  at  Redcliffe  Church.— Goldsmith’s  History 
of  England. — Davies’s— criticism.— Letter  to  Bennet  Langton 181 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Marriage  of  Little  Comedy.— Goldsmith  at  Barton.— Practical  jokes  at  the  ex- 
pense of  his  toilet.— Amusements  at  Barton.— Aquatic  misadventure 185 

CHAPTER  XXXHI. 

Dinner  at  General  Oglethorpe’s. — Anecdotes  of  the  general.  — Dispute  about 
duelling.— Ghost  stories 188 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Mr.  Joseph  Cradock. — An  author’s  confidings. — An  amanuensis.— Life  at  Edge- 
ware. — Goldsmith  conjuring. — George  Colman.— The  Fantoccini 191 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Broken  health.— Dissipation  and  debts.— The  Irish  Widow.— Practical  jokes.— 
Scrub. — A misquoted  pun. — Malagrida.— Goldsmith  proved  to  be  a fool. — Dis- 
tressed ballad-singers,— The  poet  at  Ranleigh 198 


CONTENTS. 


9 


CHAPTER  XXX VI. 

PAGE 

Invitation  to  Christmas. — The  spring-velvet  coat. — The  hay -making  wig.— The 
mischances  of  loo. — The  fair  culprit. — A dance  with  the  Jessamy  Bride 205 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

Theatrical  delays.— Negotiations  with  Colman. — Letter  to  Garrick. — Croaking 
of  the  manager.— Naming  of  the  play.— She  Stoops  to  Conquer. — Foote’s 
Primitive  Puppet  Show. — Piety  on  Pattens. — First  performance  of  the  come- 
dy.—Agitation  of  the  author.— Success.— Colman  squibbed  out  of  town 209 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

A newspaper  attack.— The  Evans  affray.— Johnson’s  comment 217 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Boswell  in  Holy-Week.— Dinner  at  Oglethorpe’s. — Dinner  at  Paoli’s. — The  policy 
of  truth  — Goldsmith  affects  independence  of  royalty. — Paoli’s  compliment. — 
Johnson’s  eulogium  on  the  fiddle. — Question  about  suicide. — Boswell’s  subser- 
viency  221 

CHAPTER  XL. 

Changes  in  the  Literary  Club.— Johnson’s  objection  to  Garrick.— Election  of 
Boswell 227 

CHAPTER  XLI. 

Dinner  at  Dilly’s. — Conversations  on  natural  history. — Intermeddling  of  Boswell. 

— Dispute  about  toleration — Johnson’s  rebuff  to  Goldsmith  — his  apology. — 
Man-worship.— Doctors  Major  and  Minor.— A farewell  visit 280 

CHAPTER  XLII. 

Project  of  a Dictionary  of  Arts  and  Sciences. — Disappointment.— Negligent 
Authorship.— Application  for  a pension. — Beattie’s  Essay  on  Truth.— Public 
adulation.— A high-minded  rebuke 235 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Toil  without  hope. — The  poet  in  the  green-room— in  the  flower  garden— at  Vaux- 
hall— dissipation  without  gayety.  — Cradock  in  town — friendly  sympathy — a 
parting  scene — an  invitation  to  pleasure 239 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 

A return  to  drudgery— forced  gayety— retreat  to  the  country.— The  poem  of  Re- 
taliation.—Portrait  of  Garrick— of  Goldsmith— of  Reynolds.— Illness  of  the 
poet— his  death.— Grief  of  his  friends.— A last  word  respecting  the  Jessamy 
Bride 248 

CHAPTER  XLV. 


The  funeral.— The  monument.— The  epitaph.— Concluding  reflections 


250 


* 


I 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH; 


A BIOGRAPHY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

BIRTH  AND  PARENTAGE— CHARACTERISTICS  OF  THE  GOLDSMITH 
RACE — POETICAL  BIRTHPLACE— GOBLIN  HOUSE— SCENES  OF  BOY- 
HOOD—LISSOY— PICTURE  OF  A COUNTRY  PARSON— GOLDSMITH’S 
SCHOOLMISTRESS — BYRNE,  THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOLMASTER— GOLD- 
SMITH’S HORNPIPE  AND  EPIGRAM— UNCLE  CONTARINE— SCHOOL 
STUDIES  AND  SCHOOL  SPORTS— MISTAKES  OF  A NIGHT. 

There  are  few  writers  for  whom  the  reader  feels  such  per- 
sonal kindness  as  for  Oliver  Goldsmith,  for  few  have  so  emi- 
nently possessed  the  magic  gift  of  identifying  themselves  with 
their  writings.  We  read  his  character  in  every  page,  and  grow 
into  familiar  intimacy  with  him  as  we  read.  The  artless  be- 
nevolence that  beams  throughout  his  works;  the  whimsical, 
yet  amiable  views  of  human  life  and  human  nature ; the  un- 
forced humor,  blending  so  happily  with  good  feeling  and  good 
sense,  and  singularly  dashed  at  times  with  a pleasing  melan- 
choly ; even  the  very  nature  of  his  mellow,  and  flowing,  and 
softly-tinted  style,  all  seem  to  bespeak  his  moral  as  well  as  his 
intellectual  qualities,  and  make  us  love  the  man  at  the  same 
time  that  we  admire  the  author.  While  the  productions  of 
writers  of  loftier  pretension  and  more  sounding  names  are  suf- 
fered to  moulder  on  our  shelves,  those  of  Goldsmith  are  cher- 
ished and  laid  in  our  bosoms.  We  do  not  quote  them  with  os- 
tentation, but  they  mingle  with  our  minds,  sweeten  our  tem- 
po! s,  and  harmonize  our  thoughts;  they  put  us  in  good  humor 


12 


OLIVER  GOLD  SMITH. 


with  ourselves  and  with  the  world,  and  in  so  doing  they  make 
us  happier  and  better  men. 

An  acquaintance  with  the  private  biography  of  Goldsmith 
lets  us  into  the  secret  of  his  gifted  pages.  We  there  discover 
them  to  be  little  more  than  transcripts  of  his  own  heart  and 
picturings  of  his  fortunes.  There  he  shows  himself  the  same 
kind,  artless,  good-humored,  excursive,  sensible,  whimsical,  in- 
telligent being  that  he  appears  in  his  writings.  Scarcely  an 
adventure  or  character  is  given  in  his  works  that  may  not  be* 
traced  to  his  own  parti-colored  story.  Many  of  his  most  ludi- 
crous scenes  and  ridiculous  incidents  have  been  drawn  from 
his  own  blunders  and  mischances,  and  he  seems  really  to  have 
been  buffeted  into  almost  every  maxim  imparted  by  him  for 
the  instruction  of  his  reader. 

Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born  on  the  10th  of  November,  1728, 
at  the  hamlet  of  Pallas,  or  Pallasmore,  county  of  Longford,  in 
Ireland.  He  sprang  from  a respectable,  but  by  no  means  a 
thrifty  stock.  Some  families  seem  to  inherit  kindliness  and 
incompetency,  and  to  hand  down  virtue  and  poverty  from 
generation  to  generation.  Such  was  the  case  with  the  Gold- 
smiths. 4 ‘ They  were  always,  ” according  to  their  own  accounts, 
“a  strange  family ; they  rarely  acted  like  other  people;  their 
hearts  were  in  the  right  place,  but  their  heads  seemed  to  be 
doing  anything  but  what  they  ought.” — “ They  were  remark- 
able, ” says  another  statement,  1 ‘ for  their  worth,  but  of  no 
cleverness  in  the  ways  of  the  world.”  Oliver  Goldsmith  will  be 
found  faithfully  to  inherit  the  virtues  and  weaknesses  of  his 
race. 

His  father,  the  Rev.  Charles  Goldsmith,  with  hereditary  im- 
providence, married  when  very  young  and  very  poor,  and 
starved  along  for  several  years  on  a small  country  curacy  and 
the  assistance  of  his  wife’s  friends.  His  whole  income,  eked 
out  by  the  produce  of  some  fields  which  he  farmed,  and  of 
some  occasional  duties  performed  for  his  wife’s  uncle,  the 
rector  of  an  adjoining  parish,  did  not  exceed  forty  pounds. 

“ And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a year.” 

He  inhabited  an  old,  half  rustic  mansion,  that  stood  on  a 
rising  ground  in  a rough,  lonely  part  of  the  country,  overlook- 
ing a low  tract,  occasionally  flooded  by  the  river  Inny.  In  this 
house  Goldsmith  was  born,  and  it  was  a birthplace  worthy  of 
a poet ; for,  by  all  accounts,  it  was  haunted  ground.  A tradition 
handed  down  among  the  neighboring  peasantry  states  that,  in 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


13 


after  years,  the  house,  remaining  for  some  time  untenanted, 
went  to  decay,  the  roof  fell  in,  and  it  became  so  lonely  and  for- 
lorn as  to  be  a resort  for  the  ‘ ‘ good  people”  or  fairies,  who  in 
Ireland  are  supposed  to  delight  in  old,  crazy,  deserted  man- 
sions for  their  midnight  revels.  All  attempts  to  repair  it  were 
in  vain ; the  fairies  battled  stoutly  to  maintain  possession.  A 
huge  misshapen  hobgoblin  used  to  bestride  the  house  every 
evening  with  an  immense  pair  of  jack-boots,  which,  in  his 
efforts  at  hard  riding,  he  would  thrust  through  the  roof,  kick- 
ing to  pieces  all  the  work  of  the  preceding  day.  The  house 
was  therefore  left  to  its  fate,  and  went  to  ruin. 

Such  is  the  popular  tradition  about  Goldsmith’s  birthplace. 
About  two  years  after  his  birth  a change  came  over  the  cir- 
cumstances of  his  father.  By  the  death  of  his  wife’s  uncle  he 
succeeded  to  the  rectory  of  Kilkenny  West;  and,  abandoning 
the  old  goblin  mansion,  he  removed  to  Lissoy,  in  the  county  of 
Westmeath,  where  he  occupied  a farm  of  seventy  acres,  situ- 
ated on  the  skirts  of  that  pretty  little  village. 

This  was  the  scene  of  Goldsmith’s  boyhood,  the  little  world 
whence  he  drew  many  of  those  pictures,  rural  and  domestic, 
whimsical  and  touching,  which  abound  throughout  his  works, 
and  which  appeal  so  eloquently  both  to  the  fancy  and  the 
heart.  Lissoy  is  confidently  cited  as  the  original  of  his  ‘ ‘ Au- 
burn” in  the  “ Deserted  Village;”  his  father’s  establishment,  a 
mixture  of  farm  and  parsonage,  furnished  hints,  it  is  said, 
for  the  rural  economy  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield;  and  his 
father  himself,  with  his  learned  simplicity,  his  guileless  wis- 
dom, his  amiable  piety,  and  utter  ignorance  of  the  world,  has 
been  exquisitely  portrayed  in  the  worthy  Dr.  Primrose.  Let 
us  pause  for  a moment,  and  draw  from  Goldsmith’s  writings 
one  or  two  of  those  pictures  which,  under  feigned  names,  rep- 
resent his  father  and  his  family,  and  the  happy  fireside  of  his 
childish  days. 

“My  father,”  says  the  “Man  in  Black,”  who,  in  some  re- 
spects, is  a counterpart  of  Goldsmith  himself,  “my father,  the 
younger  son  of  a good  family,  was  possessed  of  a small  living 
in  the  church.  His  education  was  above  his  fortune,  and  his 
generosity  greater  than  his  education.  Poor  as  he  was,  he  had 
his  flatterers  poorer  than  himself ; for  every  dinner  he  gave 
them,  they  returned  him  an  equivalent  in  praise ; and  this  was 
all  he  wanted.  The  same  ambition  that  actuates  a monarch  at 
the  head  of  his  army  influenced  my  father  at  the  head  of  his 
table : he  told  the  story  of  the  ivy-tree,  and  that  was  laughed 


14 


OLIVER  O OLD  SMITH. 


at ; he  repeated  the  jest  of  the  two  scholars  and  one  pair  of 
breeches,  and  the  company  laughed  at  that ; but  the  story  of 
Taffy  in  the  sedan-chair  was  sure  to  set  the  table  in  a roar. 
Thus  his  pleasure  increased  in  proportion  to  the  pleasure  he 
gave;  he  loved  all  the  world,  and  he  fancied  all  the  world  loved 
him. 

“ As  his  fortune  was  but  small,  he  lived  up  to  the  very  extent 
of  it;  lie  had  no  intention  of  leaving  his  children  money, 
for  that  was  dross ; he  resolved  they  should  have  learning,  for 
learning,  he  used  to  observe,  was  better  than  silver  or  gold. 
For  this  purpose  he  undertook  to  instruct  us  himself,  and  took 
as  much  care  to  form  our  morals  as  to  improve  our  under- 
standing. We  were  told  that  universal  benevolence  was  what 
first  cemented  society;  we  were  taught  to  consider  all  the 
wants  of  mankind  as  our  own:  to  regard  the  human  face 
divine  with  affection  and  esteem ; he  wound  us  up  to  be  mere 
machines  of  pity,  and  rendered  us  incapable  of  withstanding 
the  slightest  impulse  made  either  by  real  or  fictitious  distress. 
In  a word,  we  were  perfectly  instructed  in  the  art  of  giving 
away  thousands  before  we  were  taught  the  necessary  qualifica- 
tions of  getting  a farthing.” 

In  the  Deserted  Village  we  have  another  picture  of  his  father 
and  his  father’s  fireside : 

“ His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 

He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain; 

The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 

Whose  beard,  descending,  swept  his  aged  breast; 

The  ruin’d  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 

Claim’d  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow’d; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 

Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk’d  the  night  away; 

Wept  o’er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 

Shoulder’d  his  crutch,  and  show’d  how  fields  wTere  won. 

Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 

And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began.” 

The  family  of  the  worthy  pastor  consisted  of  five  sons  and 
three  daughters.  Henry,  the  eldest,  was  the  good  man’s  pride 
and  hope,  and  he  tasked  his  slender  means  to  the  utmost  in 
educating  him  for  a learned  and  distinguished  career.  Oliver 
was  the  second  son,  and  seven  years  younger  than  Henry,  who 
was  the  guide  and  protector  of  his  childhood,  and  to  whom  he 
was  most  tenderly  attached  throughout  life. 

Oliver’s  education  began  when  he  was  about  three  years 


OLIVER  O OLD  SMITH. 


15 


old ; that  is  to  say,  he  was  gathered  under  the  wings  of  one  of 
those  good  old  motherly  dames,  found  in  every  village,  who 
cluck  together  the  whole  callow  brood  of  the  neighborhood,  to 
teach  them  their  letters  and  keep  them  out  of  harm’s  way. 
Mistress  Elizabeth  Delap,  for  that  was  her  name,  flourished  in 
this  capacity  for  upward  of  fifty  years,  and  it  was  the  pride 
and  boast  of  her  declining  days,  when  nearly  ninety  years  of 
age,  that  she  was  the  first  that  had  put  a book  (doubtless  a 
hornbook)  into  Goldsmith’s  hands.  Apparently  he  did  not 
much  profit  by  it,  for  she  confessed  he  was  one  of  the  dullest 
boys  she  had  ever  dealt  with,  insomuch  that  she  had  some- 
times doubted  whether  it  was  possible  to  make  anything  of 
him:  a common  case  with  imaginative  children,  who  are  apt 
to  be  beguiled  from  the  dry  abstractions  of  elementary  study 
by  the  picturings  of  the  fancy. 

At  six  years  of  age  he  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  village 
schoolmaster,  one  Thomas  (or,  as  he  was  commonly  and 
irreverently  named,  Paddy)  Byrne,  a capital  tutor  for  a poet. 
He  had  been  educated  for  a pedagogue,  but  had  enlisted  in 
the  army,  served  abroad  during  the  wars  of  Queen  Anne’3 
time,  and  risen  to  the  rank  of  quartermaster  of  a regiment  in 
Spain.  At  the  return  of  peace,  having  no  longer  exercise  for 
the  sword,  he  resumed  the  ferule,  and  drilled  the  urchin 
populace  of  Lissoy.  Goldsmith  is  supposed  to  have  had  him 
and  his  school  in  view  in  the  following  sketch  in  his  Deserted 
Village: 


“ Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossom’d  furze  unprofitably  gay, 

There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill’d  to  rule, 

The  village  master  taught  his  little  school; 

A man  severe  he  was,  and  stem  to  view, 

I knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew: 

Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day’s  disasters  in  his  morning  face ; 

Full  well  they  laugh’d  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a joke  had  he; 

Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round, 

Convey  d the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown’d: 

Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught, 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault; 

The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew, 

’Twas  certain  he  could  write  and  cipher  too; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge: 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  own’d  his  skill, 

For,  e’en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still; 


16 


OLIVER  O OLD  SMITH. 


While  words  of  learned  length  and  thund’rlng  sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around — 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew.” 

There  are  certain  whimsical  traits  in  the  character  ol 
Byrne,  not  given  in  the  foregoing  sketch.  He  was  fond  of 
talking  of  his  vagabond  wanderings  in  foreign  lands,  and  had 
brought  with  him  from  the  wars  a world  of  campaigning 
stories,  of  which  he  was  generally  the  hero,  and  wrhich  he 
would  deal  forth  to  his  wondering  scholars  when  he  ought  to 
have  been  teaching  them  their  lessons.  These  travellers’  tales 
had  a powerful  effect  upon  the  vivid  imagination  of  Gold- 
smith, and  awakened  an  unconquerable  passion  for  wander- 
ing and  seeking  adventure. 

Byrne  was,  moreover,  of  a romantic  vein,  and  exceedingly 
superstitious.  He  was  deeply  versed  in  the  fairy  superstitions 
which  abound  in  Ireland,  all  which  he  professed  implicitly  to 
believe.  Under  his  tuition  Goldsmith  soon  became  almost  as 
great  a proficient  in  fairy  lore.  From  this  branch  of  good-for- 
nothing  knowledge,  his  studies,  by  an  easy  transition,  ex- 
tended to  the  histories  of  robbers,  pirates,  smugglers,  and  the 
whole  race  of  Irish  rogues  and  rapparees.  Everything,  in 
short,  that  savored  of  romance,  fable,  and  adventure  was 
congenial  to  his  poetic  mind,  and  took  instant  root  there ; but 
the  slow  plants  of  useful  knowledge  were  apt  to  be  overrun,  if 
not  choked,  by  the  weeds  of  his  quick  imagination. 

Another  trait  of  his  motley  preceptor,  Byrne,  was  a disposi- 
tion to  dabble  in  poetry,  and  this  likewise  was  caught  by  his 
pupil.  Before  he  was  eight  years  old  Goldsmith  had  con- 
tracted a habit  of  scribbling  verses  on  small  scraps  of  paper, 
which,  in  a little  while,  he  would  throw  into  the  fire.  A few 
of  these  sibylline  leaves,  however,  were  rescued  from  the 
flames  and  conveyed  to  his  mother.  The  good  woman  read 
them  with  a mother’s  delight,  and  saw  at  once  that  her  son 
was  a genius  and  a poet.  From  that  time  she  beset  her 
husband  with  solicitations  to  give  the  boy  an  education 
suitable  to  his  talents.  The  worthy  man  was  already  strait- 
ened by  the  costs  of  instruction  of  his  eldest  son  Henry,  and 
had  intended  to  bring  his  second  son  up  to  a trade ; but  the 
mother  would  listen  to  no  such  thing ; as  usual,  her  influence 
prevailed,  and  Oliver,  instead  of  being  instructed  in  some 
humble  but  cheerful  and  gainful  handicraft,  was  devoted  to 
poverty  and  the  Muse. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


17 


A severe  attack  of  the  small-pox  caused  him  to  be  taken 
from  under  the  care  of  his  story-telling  preceptor,  Byrne. 
His  malady  had  nearly  proved  fatal,  and  his  face  remained 
pitted  through  life.  On  his  recovery  he  was  placed  under  the 
charge  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Griffin,  schoolmaster  of  Elphin,  in 
Roscommon,  and  became  an  inmate  in  the  house  of  his  uncle, 
John  Goldsmith,  Esq.,  of  Bally  ought  er,  in  that  vicinity.  He 
now  entered  upon  studies  of  a higher  order,  hut  without 
making  any  uncommon  progress.  Still  a careless,  easy 
facility  of  disposition,  an  amusing  eccentricity  of  manners, 
and  a vein  of  quiet  and  peculiar  humor,  rendered  him  a 
general  favorite,  and  a trifling  incident  soon  induced  his 
uncle’s  family  to  concur  in  his  mother’s  opinion  of  his  genius. 

A number  of  young  folks  had  assembled  at  his  uncle’s  to 
dance.  One  of  the  company,  named  Cummings,  played  on 
the  violin.  In  the  course  of  the  evening  Oliver  undertook  a 
hornpipe.  His  short  and  clumsy  figure,  and  his  face  pitted 
and  discolored  with  the  small-pox,  rendered  him  a ludicrous 
figure  in  the  eyes  of  the  musician,  who  made  merry  at  his 
expense,  dubbing  him  his  little  iEsop.  Goldsmith  was  nettled 
by  the  jest,  and,  stopping  short  in  the  hornpipe,  exclaimed, 

“ Our  herald  hath  proclaimed  this  saying, 

See  iEsop  dancing,  and  his  monkey  playing.’* 


The  repartee  was  thought  wonderful  for  a boy  of  nine  years 
old,  and  Oliver  became  forthwith  the  wit  and  the  bright 
genius  of  the  family.  It  was  thought  a pity  he  should  not 
receive  the  same  advantages  with  his  elder  brother  Henry, 
who  had  been  sent  to  the  University ; and,  as  his  father’s 
circumstances  would  not  afford  it,  several  of  his  relatives, 
spurred  on  by  the  representations  of  his  mother,  agreed  to 
contribute  toward  the  expense.  The  greater  part,  however, 
was  borne  by  his  uncle,  the  Rev.  Thomas  Contarine.  This 
worthy  man  had  been  the  college  companion  of  Bishop  Berke- 
ley, and  was  possessed  of  moderate  means,  holding  the  living 
of  Carrick-on-Shannon,  He  had  married  the  sister  of  Gold- 
smith’s father,  but  was  now  a widower,  with  an  only  child,  a 
daughter,  named  Jane.  Contarine  was  a kind-hearted  man, 
with  a generosity  beyond  his  means.  He  took  Goldsmith  into 
favor  from  his  infancy;  his  house  was  open  to  him  during 
the  holidays;  his  daughter  Jane,  two  years  older  than  the 
poet,  was  his  early  playmate ; and  uncle  Contarine  continued 


18 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


to  the  last  one  of  his  most  active,  unwavering,  and  generous 
friends. 

Fitted  out  in  a great  measure  by  this  considerate  relative, 
Oliver  was  now  transferred  to  schools  of  a higher  order,  to 
prepare  him  for  the  University;  first  to  one  at  Athlone,  kept 
by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Campbell,  and,  at  the  end  of  two  years,  to 
ono  at  Edgeworthstown,  under  the  superintendence  of  the 
Rev.  Patrick  Hughes. 

Even  at  these  schools  his  proficiency  does  not  appear  to  have 
been  brilliant.  He  was  indolent  and  careless,  however,  rather 
than  dull,  and,  on  the  whole,  appears  to  have  been  well  thought 
of  by  his  teachers.  In  his  studies  he  inclined  toward  the  Latin 
poets  and  historians ; relished  Ovid  and  Horace,  and  delighted 
in  Livy.  He  exercised  himself  with  pleasure  in  reading  and 
translating  Tacitus,  and  was  brought  to  pay  attention  to  style 
in  his  compositions  by  a reproof  from  his  brother  Henry,  to 
whom  he  had  written  brief  and  confused  letters,  and  who  told 
him  in  reply,  that  if  he  had  but  little  to  say,  to  endeavor  to  say 
that  little  well. 

The  career  of  his  brother  Henry  at  the  University  wa a 
enough  to  stimulate  him  to  exertion.  He  seemed  to  be  realiz- 
ing all  his  father’s  hopes,  and  was  winning  collegiate  honors 
that  the  good  man  considered  indicative  of  his  future  success 
in  life. 

In  the  meanwhile  Oliver,  if  not  distinguished  among  his 
teachers,  was  popular  among  his  schoolmates.  He  had  a 
thoughtless  generosity  extremely  captivating  to  young  hearts; 
his  temper  was  quick  and  sensitive,  and  easily  offended ; but 
his  anger  was  momentary,  and  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
harbor  resentment.  He  was  the  leader  of  all  boyish  sports  and 
athletic  amusements,  especially  ball-playing,  and  he  was  fore- 
most in  all  mischievous  pranks.  Many  years  afterward,  an 
old  man,  Jack  Fitzimmons,  one  of  the  directors  of  the  sports 
and  keeper  of  the  ball-court  at  Ballymahon,  used  to  boast  of 
having  been  schoolmate  of  u Noll  Goldsmith,”  as  he  called  him, 
and  would  dwell  with  vainglory  on  one  of  their  exploits,  in 
robbing  the  orchard  of  Tirlicken,  an  old  family  residence  of 
Lord  Annaly.  The  exploit,  however,  had  nearly  involved  dis- 
astrous consequences;  for  the  crew  of  juvenile  depredators 
were  captured,  like  Shakespeare  and  his  deer-stealing  col- 
leagues, and  nothing  but  the  respectability  of  Goldsmith’s 
connections  saved  him  from  the  punishment  that  would 
have  awaited  more  plebeian  delinquents. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


19 


An  amusing  incident  is  related  as  occurring  in  Goldsmith’s 
last  journey  homeward  from  Edgeworthstown.  His  father’s 
house  was  about  twenty  miles  distant;  the  road  lay  through 
a rough  country,  impassable  for  carriages.  Goldsmith  pro- 
cured a horse  for  the  journey,  and  a friend  furnished  him  with 
a guinea  for  travelling  expenses.  He  was  but  a stripling  of 
sixteen,  and  being  thus  suddenly  mounted  on  horseback,  with 
money  in  his  pocket,  it  is  no  wonder  that  his  head  was 
turned.  He  determined  to  play  the  man,  and  to  spend  his 
money  in  independent  traveller’s  stvle.  Accordingly,  instead 
of  pushing  directly  for  home,  he  halted  for  the  night  at  the  little 
town  of  Ardagh.  and,  accosting  the  first  person  he  met,  in- 
quired, with  somewhat  of  a consequential  air,  for  the  best 
house  in  the  place.  Unluckily,  the  person  he  had  accosted  was 
one  Kelly,  a notorious  wag,  who  was  quartered  in  the  family 
of  one  Mr.  Featherstone,  a gentleman  of  fortune.  Amused 
with  the  self-consequence  of  the  stripling,  and  willing  to  play 
off  a practical  joke  at  his  expense,  he  directed  him  to  what  was 
literally  “the  best  house  in  the  place,”  namely,  the  family 
mansion  of  Mr.  Featherstone.  Goldsmith  accordingly  rode  up 
to  what  he  supposed  to  be  an  inn,  ordered  his  horse  to  be  taken 
to  the  stable,  walked  into  the  parlor,  seated  himself  by  the  fire, 
and  demanded  what  he  could  have  for  supper.  On  ordinary 
occasions  he  was  diffident  and  even  awkward  in  his  manners, 
but  here  he  was  “at  ease  in  his  inn,”  and  felt  called  upon  to 
show  his  manhood  and  enact  the  experienced  traveller.  His 
person  was  by  no  means  calculated  to  play  off  his  pretensions, 
for  he  was  short  and  thick,  with  a pock-marked  face,  and  an 
air  and  carriage  by  no  means  of  a distinguished  cast.  The 
owner  of  the  house,  however,  soon  discovered  his  whimsical 
mistake,  and,  being  a man  of  humor,  determined  to  indulge  it, 
especially  as  he  accidentally  learned  that  this  intruding  guest 
was  the  son  of  an  old  acquaintance. 

Accordingly  Goldsmith  was  ‘ ‘ fooled  to  the  top  of  his  bent.  ” 
and  permitted  to  have  full  sway  throughout  the  evening.  Never 
was  schoolboy  more  elated.  When  supper  was  served,  he 
most  condescendingly  insisted  that  the  landlord,  his  wife  and 
daughter  should  partake,  and  ordered  a bottle  of  wine  to  crown 
the  repast  and  benefit  the  house.  His  last  flourish  was  on  going 
to  bed,  when  he  gave  especial  orders  to  have  a hot  cake  at 
breakfast.  His  confusion  and  dismay,  on  discovering  the  next 
morning  that  he  had  been  swaggering  in  this  free  and  easy 
way  in  the  house  of  a private  gentleman,  may  be  readily  com 


20 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


ceived.  True  to  his  habit  of  turning  the  events  of  his  life  to 
literary  account,  we  find  this  chapter  of  ludicrous  blunders 
and  cross  purposes  dramatized  many  years  afterward  in  his 
admirable  comedy  of  “She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  or  the  Mistakes 
of  a Night.” 


CHAPTER  II. 

IMPROVIDENT  MARRIAGES  IN  THE  GOLDSMITH  FAMILY — GOLDSMITH 
AT  THE  UNIVERSITY — SITUATION  OF  A SIZER — TYRANNY  OF 
WILDER,  THE  TUTOR — PECUNIARY  STRAITS — STREET  BALLADS — 
COLLEGE  RIOT— GALLOWS  WALSH— COLLEGE  PRIZE — A DANCE 
INTERRUPTED. 

While  Oliver  was  making  his  way  somewhat  negligently 
through  the  schools,  his  elder  brother  Henry  was  rejoicing  his 
father’s  heart  by  his  career  at  the  University.  He  soon  dis- 
tinguished himself  at  the  examinations,  and  obtained  a scholar- 
ship in  1743.  This  is  a collegiate  distinction  which  serves  as  a 
stepping-stone  in  any  of  the  learned  professions,  and  which 
leads  to  advancement  in  the  University  should  the  individual 
choose  to  remain  there.  His  father  now  trusted  that  he  would 
push  forward  for  that  comfortable  provision,  a fellowship,  and 
thence  to  higher  dignities  and  emoluments.  Henry,  however, 
had  the  improvidence  or  the  “unworldliness”  of  his  race;  re- 
turning to  the  country  during  the  succeeding  vacation,  he 
married  for  love,  relinquished,  of  course,  all  his  collegiate 
prospects  and  advantages,  set  up  a school  in  his  father’s  neigh- 
borhood, and  buried  his  talents  and  acquirements  for  the  re- 
mainder of  his  life  in  a curacy  of  forty  pounds  a year. 

Another  matrimonial  event  occurred  not  long  afterward  in 
the  Goldsmith  family,  to  disturb  the  equanimity  of  its  worthy 
head.  This  was  the  clandestine  marriage  of  his  daughter 
Catherine  with  a young  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Hodson, 
who  had  been  confided  to  the  care  of  her  brother  Henry  to 
complete  his  studies.  As  the  youth  was  of  wealthy  parentage, 
it  was  thought  a lucky  match  for  the  Goldsmith  family ; but 
the  tidings  of  the  event  stung  the  bride’s  father  to  the  soul. 
Proud  of  his  integrity,  and  jealous  of  that  good  name  which  was 
his  chief  possession,  he  saw  himself  and  his  family  subjected 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


21 


to  the  degrading  suspicion  of  having  abused  a trust  reposed  in 
them  to  promote  a mercenary  match.  In  the  first  transports 
of  his  feelings  he  is  said  to  have  uttered  a wish  that  his  daugh- 
ter might  never  have  a child  to  bring  like  shame  and  sorrow 
on  her  head.  The  hasty  wish,  so  contrary  to  the  usual  benig- 
nity of  the  man,  was  recalled  and  repented  of  almost  as  soon  as 
uttered;  but  it  was  considered  baleful  in  its  effects  by  the 
superstitious  neighborhood;  for,  though  his  daughter  bore 
three  children,  they  all  died  before  her. 

A more  effectual  measure  was  taken  by  Mr.  Goldsmith  to 
ward  off  the  apprehended  imputation,  but  one  which  imposed 
a heavy  burden  on  his  family.  This  was  to  furnish  a marriage 
portion  of  four  hundred  pounds,  that  his  daughter  might  not 
be  said  to  have  entered  her  husband’s  family  empty-handed. 
To  raise  the  sum  in  cash  was  impossible ; but  he  assigned  to 
Mr.  Hodson  his  little  farm  and  the  income  of  his  tithes  until 
the  marriage  portion  should  be  paid.  In  the  mean  time,  as  his 
living  did  not  amount  to  £200  per  annum,  he  had  to  practise 
the  strictest  economy  to  pay  off  gradually  this  heavy  tax  in- 
curred by  his  nice  sense  of  honor. 

The  first  of  his  family  to  feel  the  effects  of  this  economy  was 
Oliver.  The  time  had  now  arrived  for  him  to  be  sent  to  the 
University,  and,  accordingly,  on  the  11th  June,  1745,  when 
sixteen  years  of  age,  he  entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin;  but 
his  father  was  no  longer  able  to  place  him  there  as  a pensioner, 
as  he  had  done  his  eldest  son  Henry ; he  was  obliged,  therefore, 
to  enter  him  as  a sizer,  or  “poor  scholar.”  He  was  lodged  in 
one  of  the  top  rooms  adjoining  the  library  of  the  building, 
numbered  35,  where  it  is  said  his  name  may  still  be  seen, 
scratched  by  himself  upon  a window  frame. 

A student  of  this  class  is  taught  and  boarded  gratuitously, 
and  has  to  pay  but  a very  small  sum  for  his  room.  It  is  ex- 
pected, in  return  for  these  advantages,  that  he  will  be  a dili- 
gent student,  and  render  himself  useful  in  a variety  of  ways. 
At  Trinity  College,  at  the  time  of  Goldsmith’s  admission,  sev- 
eral derogatory  and  indeed  menial  offices  were  exacted  from 
the  sizer,  as  if  the  college  sought  to  indemnify  itself  for  confer- 
ring benefits  by  inflicting  indignities.  He  was  obliged  to  sweep 
part  of  the  courts  in  the  morning,  to  carry  up  the  dishes  from 
the  kitchen  to  the  fellows’  table,  and  to  wait  in  the  hall  until 
that  body  had  dined.  His  very  dress  marked  the  inferiority 
of  the  4 4 poor  student”  to  his  happier  classmates.  It  was  a 
black  gown  of  coarse  stuff  without  sleeves,  and  a plain  black 


22 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


cloth  cap  without  a tassel.  We  can  conceive  nothing  more 
odious  and  ill-judged  than  these  distinctions,  which  attached 
tlie  idea  of  degradation  to  poverty,  and  placed  the  indigent 
youth  of  merit  below  the  worthless  minion  of  fortune.  They 
were  calculated  to  wound  and  irritate  the  noble  mind,  and  to 
render  the  base  mind  baser. 

Indeed,  the  galling  effect  of  these  servile  tasks  upon  youths 
of  proud  spirits  and  quick  sensibilities  became  at  length  too 
notorious  to  be  disregarded.  About  fifty  years  since,  on  a 
Trinity  Sunday,  a number  of  persons  were  assembled  to  wit- 
ness the  college  ceremonies;  and  as  a sizer  was  carrying  up  a 
dish  of  meat  to  the  fellows’  table,  a burly  citizen  in  the  crowd 
made  some  sneering  observation  on  the  servility  of  his  office. 
Stung  to  the  quick,  the  high-spirited  youth  instantly  flung  the 
dish  and  its  contents  at  the  head  of  the  snccrer.  The  sizer  was 
sharply  reprimanded  for  this  outbreak  of  wounded  pride,  but 
the  degrading  task  was  from  that  day  forward  very  properly 
consigned  to  menial  hands. 

It  was  with  the  utmost  repugnance  that  Goldsmith  entered 
college  in  this  capacity.  His  shy  and  sensitive  nature  was 
affected  by  the  inferior  station  he  was  doomed  to  hold  among 
his  gay  and  opulent  fellow-students,  and  he  became,  at  times, 
moody  and  despondent.  A recollection  of  these  early  mortifi- 
cations induced  him,  in  after  years,  most  strongly  to  dissuade 
his  brother  Henry,  the  clergyman,  from  sending  a son  to  col- 
lege on  a like  footing.  ‘ ‘ If  he  has  ambition,  strong  passions, 
and  an  exquisite  sensibility  of  contempt,  do  not  send  him 
there,  unless  you  have  no  other  trade  for  him  except  your 
own.” 

To  add  to  his  annoyances,  the  fellow  of  the  college  who  had 
the  peculiar  control  of  his  studies,  the  Rev.  Theaker  Wilder, 
was  a man  of  violent  and  capricious  temper,  and  of  diametri- 
cally opposite  tastes.  The  tutor  was  devoted  to  the  exact 
sciences;  Goldsmith  was  for  the  classics.  Wilder  endeavored 
to  force  his  favorite  studies  upon  the  student  by  harsh  means, 
suggested  by  his  own  coarse  and  savage  nature.  He  abused 
him  in  presence  of  the  class  as  ignorant  and  stupid ; ridiculed 
him  as  awkward  and  ugly,  and  at  times  in  the  transports  of 
his  temper  indulged  in  personal  violence.  The  effect  Tvas  to 
aggravate  a passive  distaste  into  a positive  aversion.  Gold- 
smith was  loud  in  expressing  his  contempt  for  mathematics 
and  his  dislike  of  ethics  and  logic;  and  the  prejudices  thus 
imbibed  continued  through  life.  Mathematics  he  always  pro 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  23 

nounced  a science  to  which  the  meanest  intellects  were  compe- 
tent. 

A truer  cause  of  this  distaste  for  the  severer  studies  may 
probably  be  found  in  his  natural  indolence  and  his  love  of  con- 
vivial pleasures.  ‘ 4 1 was  a lover  of  mirth,  good-humor,  and 
even  sometimes  of  fun,”  said  he,  “ from  my  childhood.”  He 
sang  a good  song,  was  a boon  companion,  and  could  not  resist 
any  temptation  to  social  enjoyment.  He  endeavored  to  per- 
suade himself  that  learning  and  dulness  went  hand  in  hand, 
and  that  genius  was  not  to  be  put  in  harness.  Even  in  riper 
years,  when  the  consciousness  of  his  own  deficiencies  ought  to 
have  convinced  him  of  the  importance  of  early  study,  he 
speaks  slightingly  of  college  honors. 

u A lad,”  says  he,  “ whose  passions  are  not  strong  enough  in 
youth  to  mislead  him  from  that  path  of  science  which  his 
tutors,  and  not  his  inclination,  have  chalked  out,  by  four  or 
five  years’  perseverance  will  probably  obtain  every  advantage 
and  honor  his  college  can  bestow.  I would  compare  the  man 
whose  youth  has  been  thus  passed  in  the  tranquillity  of  dispas- 
sionate prudence,  to  liquors  that  never  ferment,  and,  conse- 
quently, continue  always  muddy.” 

The  death  of  his  worthy  father,  which  took  place  early  in 
1747,  rendered  Goldsmith’s  situation  at  college  extremely  irk- 
some. His  mother  was  left  with  little  more  than  the  means  of 
providing  for  the  wants  of  her  household,  and  was  unable  to 
furnish  him  any  remittances.  He  would  have  been  compelled, 
therefore,  to  leave  college,  had  it  not  been  for  the  occasional 
contributions  of  friends,  the  foremost  among  whom  was  his 
generous  and  warm-hearted  uncle  Contarine.  Still  these  sup- 
plies were  so  scanty  and  precarious,  that  in  the  intervals  be- 
tween them  he  was  put  to  great  straits.  He  had  two  college  as- 
sociates from  whom  he  would  occasionally  borrow  small  sums ; 
one  was  an  early  schoolmate,  by  the  name  of  Beatty ; the  other 
a cousin,  and  the  chosen  companion  of  his  frolics,  Robert  (or 
rather  Bob)  Bryanton,  of  Ballymulvey  House,  near  Ballyma- 
hon.  When  these  casual  supplies  failed  him  he  was  more  than 
once  obliged  to  raise  funds  for  his  immediate  wants  by  pawn- 
ing his  books.  At  times  he  sank  into  despondency,  but  he  had 
what  he  termed  “ a knack  at  hoping,”  which  soon  buoyed  him 
up  again.  He  began  now  to  resort  to  his  poetical  vein  as  a 
source  of  profit,  scribbling  street-ballads,  which  he  privately 
sold  for  five  shillings  each  at  a shop  which  dealt  in  such  small 
wares  of  literature.  He  felt  an  author’s  affection  for  these 


24 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


unowned  bantlings,  and  wo  are  told  would  stroll  privately 
through  the  streets  at  night  to  hear  them  sung,  listening  to 
the  comments  and  criticisms  of  bystanders,  and  observing  the 
degree  of  applause  which  each  received. 

Edmund  Burke  was  a fellow-student  with  Goldsmith  at  the 
college.  Neither  the  statesman  nor  the  poet  gave  promise  of 
their  future  celebrity,  though  Burke  certainly  surpassed  liis 
contemporary  in  industry  and  application,  and  evinced  more 
disposition  for  self-improvement,  associating  himself  with  a 
number  of  his  fellow-students  in  a debating  club,  in  which 
they  discussed  literary  topics,  and  exercised  themselves  in 
composition. 

Goldsmith  may  likewise  have  belonged  to  this  association, 
but  his  propensity  was  rather  to  mingle  with  the  gay  and 
thoughtless.  On  one  occasion  we  find  him  implicated  in  an 
affair  that  came  nigh  producing  his  expulsion.  A report  was 
brought  to  college  that  a scholar  was  in  the  hands  of  the  bail- 
iffs. This  was  an  insult  in  which  every  gownsman  felt  him- 
self involved.  A number  of  the  scholars  flew  to  arms,  and 
sallied  forth  to  battle,  headed  by  a hare-brained  fellow  nick- 
named Gallows  Walsh,  noted  for  his  aptness  at  mischief  and 
fondness  for  riot.  The  stronghold  of  the  bailiff  was  carried  by 
storm,  the  scholar  set  at  liberty,  and  the  delinquent  catchpole 
borne  off  captive  to  the  college,  where,  having  no  pump  to  put 
him  under,  they  satisfied  the  demands  of  collegiate  law  by 
ducking  him  in  an  old  cistern. 

Flushed  with  this  signal  victory,  Gallows  Walsh  now  ha- 
rangued his  followers,  and  proposed  to  break  open  Newgate, 
or  the  Black  Dog,  as  the  prison  was  called,  and  effect  a general 
jail  delivery.  He  was  answered  by  shouts  of  concurrence, 
and  away  went  the  throng  of  madcap  youngsters,  fully  bent 
upon  putting  an  end  to  the  tyranny  of  law.  They  were  joined 
by  the  mob  of  the  city,  and  made  an  attack  upon  the  prison 
with  true  Irish  precipitation  and  thoughtlessness,  never  hav- 
ing provided  themselves  with  cannon  to  batter  its  stone  walls. 
A few  shots  from  the  prison  brought  them  to  their  senses,  and 
they  beat  a hasty  retreat,  two  of  the  townsmen  being  killed, 
and  several  wounded. 

A severe  scrutiny  of  this  affair  took  place  at  the  University. 
Four  students,  who  had  been  ringleaders,  were  expelled ; four 
others,  who  had  been  prominent  in  the  affray,  were  public- 
ly admonished;  among  the  latter  was  the  unlucky  Gold- 
smith. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH . 


25 


To  make  up  for  this  disgrace,  he  gained,  within  a month 
afterward,  one  of  the  minor  prizes  of  the  college.  It  is  true  it 
was  one  of  the  very  smallest,  amounting  in  pecuniary  value  to 
but  thirty  shillings,  hut  it  was  the  first  distinction  he  had 
gained  in  his  whole  collegiate  career.  This  turn  of  success 
and  sadden  influx  of  wealth  proved  too  much  for  the  head  of 
our  poor  student.  He  forthwith  gave  a supper  and  dance  at 
his  chamber  to  a number  of  young  persons  of  both  sexes  from 
the  city,  in  direct  violation  of  college  rules.  The  unwonted 
sound  of  the  fiddle  reached  the  ears  of  the  implacable  Wilder. 
He  rushed  to  the  scene  of  unhallowed  festivity,  inflicted  cor- 
poral punishment  on  the  “ father  of  the  feast,”  and  turned  his 
astonished  guests  neck  and  heels  out  of  doors. 

This  filled  the  measure  of  poor  Goldsmith’s  humiliations ; he 
felt  degraded  both  within  college  and  without.  He  dreaded 
the  ridicule  of  his  fellow-students  for  the  ludicrous  termina- 
tion of  his  orgie,  and  he  was  ashamed  to  meet  his  city  acquain- 
tances after  the  degrading  chastisement  received  in  their  pres- 
ence, and  after  their  own  ignominious  expulsion.  Above  all, 
he  felt  it  impossible  to  submit  any  longer  to  the  insulting  ty- 
ranny of  Wilder;  he  determined,  therefore,  to  leave,  not  merely 
the  college,  but  also  his  native  land,  and  to  bury  what  he  con- 
ceived to  be  his  irretrievable  disgrace  in  some  distant  country. 
He  accordingly  sold  his  books  and  clothes,  and  sallied  forth 
from  the  college  walls  the  very  next  day,  intending  to  embark 
at  Cork  for— he  scarce  knew  where — America,  or  any  other 
part  beyond  sea.  With  his  usual  heedless  imprudence,  how- 
ever, he  loitered  about  Dublin  until  his  finances  were  reduced 
to  a shilling;  with  this  amount  of  specie  he  set  out  on  his 
journey. 

For  three  whole  days  he  subsisted  on  his  shilling ; when  that 
was  spent,  he  parted  with  some  of  the  clothes  from  his  back, 
until,  reduced  almost  to  nakedness,  he  was  four-and-twenty 
hours  without  food,  insomuch  that  he  declared  a handful  of 
gray  pease,  given  to  him  by  a girl  at  a wake,  was  one  of  the 
most  delicious  repasts  he  had  ever  tasted.  Hunger,  fatigue, 
and  destitution  brought  down  his  spirit  and  calmed  his  anger. 
Fain  would  he  have  retraced  his  steps,  could  he  have  done  so 
with  any  salvo  for  the  fingerings  of  his  pride.  In  his  extre- 
mity he  conveyed  to  his  brother  Henry  information  of  his  dis- 
tress, and  of  the  rash  project  on  which  he  had  set  out.  His 
affectionate  brother  hastened  to  his  relief ; furnished  him  with 
money  and  clothes;  soothed  his  feelings  with  gentle  counsel; 


26 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


prevailed  upon  him  to  return  to  college,  and  effected  an  indif- 
ferent reconciliation  between  him  and  Wilder. 

After  this  irregular  sally  upon  life  he  remained  nearly  two 
years  longer  at  the  University,  giving  proofs  of  talent  in  occa- 
sional translations  from  the  classics,  for  one  of  which  he  re- 
ceived a premium,  awarded  only  to  those  who  are  the  first  in 
literary  merit.  Still  ho  never  made  much  figure  at  college, 
his  natural  disinclination  to  study  being  increased  by  the 
harsh  treatment  he  continued  to  experience  from  his  tutor. 

Among  the  anecdotes  told  of  him  while  at  college,  is  one  in 
dicative  of  that  prompt  but  thoughtless  and  often  whimsical 
benevolence  which  throughout  life  formed  one  of  the  most  ec- 
centric yet  endearing  points  of  his  character.  He  was  engaged 
to  breakfast  one  day  with  a college  intimate,  but  failed  to  make 
his  appearance.  His  friend  repaired  to  his  room,  knocked  at 
the  door,  and  was  bidden  to  enter.  To  his  surprise,  he  found 
Goldsmith  in  his  bed,  immersed  to  his  chin  in  feathers.  A 
serio-comic  story  explained  the  circumstance.  In  the  course 
of  the  preceding  evening’s  stroll  he  had  met  with  a woman  with 
five  children  who  implored  his  charity.  Her  husband  was  in 
the  hospital ; she  was  just  from  the  country,  a stranger,  and 
destitute,  without  food  or  shelter  for  her  helpless  offspring. 
This  was  too  much  for  the  kind  heart  of  Goldsmith.  He  was 
almost  as  poor  as  herself,  it  is  true,  and  had  no  money  in  his 
pocket ; but  he  brought  her  to  the  college  gate,  gave  her  the 
blankets  from  his  bed  to  cover  her  little  brood,  and  part  of  his 
clothes  for  her  to  sell  and  purchase  food ; and,  finding  himself 
cold  during  the  night,  had  cut  open  his  bed  and  buried  himself 
among  the  feathers. 

At  length,  on  the  27th  of  February,  1749,  O.  S.,  he  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts,  and  took  his  final 
leave  of  the  University.  He  was  freed  from  college  rule,  that 
emancipation  so  ardently  coveted  by  the  thoughtless  student, 
and  which  too  generally  launches  him  amid  the  cares,  the 
hardships,  and  vicissitudes  of  life.  He  was  freed,  too,  from  the 
brutal  tyranny  of  Wilder.  If  his  kind  and  placable  nature 
could  retain  any  resentment  for  past  injuries,  it  might  have 
been  gratified  by  learning  subsequently  that  the  passionate 
career  of  Wilder  was  terminated  by  a violent  death  in  the 
course  of  a dissolute  brawl;  but  Goldsmith  took  no  delight  in 
the  misfortunes  even  of  his  enemies. 

He  now  returned  to  his  friends,  no  longer  the  student  to  sport 
away  the  happy  interval  of  vacation,  but  the  anxious  man, 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


27 


who  is  henceforth  to  shift  for  himself  and  make  his  way 
through  the  world.  In  fact,  he  had  no  legitimate  home  to  re- 
turn to.  At  the  death  of  his  father,  the  paternal  house  at  Lis- 
soy,  in  which  Goldsmith  had  passed  his  childhood,  had  been 
taken  by  Mr.  Hodson,  who  had  married  his  sister  Catherine. 
His  mother  had  removed  to  Ballymahon,  where  she  occupied 
a small  house,  and  had  to  practise  the  severest  frugality.  His 
elder  brother  Henry  served  the  curacy  and  taught  the  school 
of  his  late  father’s  parish,  and  lived  in  narrow  circumstances 
at  Goldsmith’s  birthplace,  the  old  goblin-house  at  Pallas. 

None  of  his  relatives  were  in  circumstances  to  aid  him  with 
anything  more  than  a temporary  home,  and  the  aspect  of 
every  one  seemed  somewhat  changed.  In  fact,  his  career  at 
college  had  disappointed  his  friends,  and  they  began  to  doubt 
his  being  the  great  genius  they  had  fancied  him.  He  whimsi- 
cally alludes  to  this  circumstance  in  that  piece  of  autobiography, 
“ The  Man  in  Black,”  in  the  Citizen  of  the  World. 

“ The  first  opportunity  my  father  had  of  finding  his  expecta- 
tions disappointed  was  in  the  middling  figure  I made  at  the 
University ; he  had  flattered  himself  that  he  should  soon  see  me 
rising  into  the  foremost  rank  in  literary  reputation,  but  was 
mortified  to  find  me  utterly  unnoticed  and  unknown.  His 
disappointment  might  have  been  partly  ascribed  to  his  having 
overrated  my  talents,  and  partly  to  my  dislike  of  mathemati- 
cal reasonings  at  a time  when  my  imagii^ation  and  memory, 
yet  unsatisfied,  were  more  eager  after  new  objects  than  desir- 
ous of  reasoning  upon  those  I knew.  This,  however,  did  not 
please  my  tutors,  who  observed,  indeed,  that  I was  a little 
dull,  but  at  the  same  time  allowed  that  I seemed  to  be  very 
good-natured,  and  had  no  harm  in  me.”  * 

The  only  one  of  his  relatives  who  did  not  appear  to  lose  faith 
in  him  was  his  uncle  Contarine.  This  kind  and  considerate 
man,  it  is  said,  saw  in  him  a warmth  of  heart  requiring  some 
skill  to  direct,  and  a latent  genius  that  wanted  time  to  mature, 
and  these  impressions  none  of  his  subsequent  follies  and  irregu- 
larities wholly  obliterated.  His  purse  and  affection,  therefore, 
as  well  as  his  house,  were  now  open  to  him,  and  he  became  his 
chief  counsellor  and  director  after  his  father’s  death.  He  urged 
him  to  prepare  for  holy  orders,  and  others  of  his  relatives  con- 
curred in  the  advice.  Goldsmith  had  a settled  repugnance  to  a 
clerical  life.  This  had  been  ascribed  by  some  to  conscientious 


* Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  xxvii. 


28 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH \ 


scruples,  not  considering  himself  of  a temper  and  frame  of  mind 
for  such  a sacred  office ; others  attributed  it  to  his  roving  pro- 
pensities,  and  his  desire  to  visit  foreign  countries ; he  himseli 
gives  a whimsical  objection  in  his  biography  of  the  “ Man  in 
Black:”  “To  be  obliged  to  wear  a long  wig  when  I liked  a short 
one,  or  a black  coat  when  I generally  dressed  in  brown,  I 
thought  such  a restraint  upon  my  liberty  that  I absolutely  re- 
jected the  proposal.” 

In  effect,  however,  his  scruples  were  overruled,  and  he 
agreed  to  qualify  himself  for  the  office.  He  was  now  only 
twenty-one,  and  must  pass  two  years  of  probation.  They  were 
two  years  of  rather  loitering,  unsettled  life.  Sometimes  he  was 
at  Lissoy,  participating  with  thoughtless  enjoyment  in  the 
rural  sports  and  occupations  of  his  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Ilodson ; 
sometimes  he  was  with  his  brother  Henry,  at  the  old  goblin 
mansion  at  Pallas,  assisting  him  occasionally  in  his  school. 
The  early  marriage  and  unambitious  retirement  of  Henry, 
though  so  subversive  of  the  fond  plans  of  his  father,  had  proved 
happy  in  their  results.  He  was  already  surrounded  by  a 
blooming  family;  he  was  contented  with  his  lot,  beloved  by 
his  parishioners,  and  lived  in  the  daily  practice  of  all  the  ami- 
able virtues,  and  the  immediate  enjoyment  of  their  reward. 
Of  the  tender  affection  inspired  in  the  breast  of  Goldsmith  by 
the  constant  kindness  of  this  excellent  brother,  and  of  the 
longing  recollection  with  which,  in  the  lonely  wanderings  of 
after  years,  he  looked  back  upon  this  scene  of  domestic  felicity, 
we  have  a touching  instance  in  the  well-known  opening  to  his 
poem  of  “ The  Traveller:” 

“Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow, 

Or  by  the  lazy  Scheld  or  wandering  Po; 
***** 

Where’er  I roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 

My  heart  untra veil’d  fondly  turns  to  thee; 

Still  to  my  brother  turns  with  ceaseless  pain, 

And  drags  at  each  remove  a lengthening  chain. 

Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend, 

And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend ; 

Bless’d  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  fire; 

Bless’d  that  abode  where  want  and  pain  repair, 

And  every  stranger  finds  a ready  chair: 

Bless’d  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crown’d, 

Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 

Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale; 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


29 


Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 

And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good.” 

During  this  loitering  life  Goldsmith  pursued  no  study,  hut 
rather  amused  himself  with  miscellaneous  reading;  such  as 
biography,  travels,  poetry,  novels,  plays — everything,  in  short, 
that  administered  to  the  imagination.  Sometimes  he  strolled 
along  the  banks  of  the  river  Inny,  where,  in  after  years,  when 
he  had  become  famous,  his  favorite  seats  and  haunts  used  to 
be  pointed  out.  Often  he  joined  in  the  rustic  sports  of  the 
villagers,  and  became  adroit  at  throwing  the  sledge,  a favorite 
feat  of  activity  and  strength  in  Ireland.  Recollections  of  these 
“ healthful  sports”  we  find  in  his  “Deserted  Village:” 

“ How  often  have  I bless’d  the  coming  day, 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree: 

And  many  a gambol  frolicked  o’er  the  ground, 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round.” 

A boon  companion  in  all  his  rural  amusements  was  his 
cousin  and  college  crony,  Robert  Bryanton,  with  whom  he 
sojourned  occasionally  at  Bally mulvey  House  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. They  used  to  make  excursions  about  the  country  on 
foot,  sometimes  fishing,  sometimes  hunting  otter  in  the  Inny. 
They  got  up  a country  club  at  the  little  inn  of  Ballymahon,  of 
which  Goldsmith  soon  became  the  oracle  and  prime  wit,  aston- 
ishing his  unlettered  associates  by  his  learning,  and  being 
considered  capital  at  a song  and  a story.  From  the  rustic 
conviviality  of  the  inn  at  Ballymahon,  and  the  company 
which  used  to  assemble  there,  it  is  surmised  that  he  took  some 
hints  in  after  life  for  his  picturing  of  Tony  Lumpkin  and  his 
associates:  “Dick  Muggins,  the  exciseman;  Jack  Slang,  the 
horse  doctor;  little  Aminidab,  that  grinds  the  music-box,  and 
Tom  Twist,  that  spins  the  pewter  platter.”  Nay,  it  is, thought 
that  Tony’s  drinking  song  at  the  “Three  Jolly  Pigeons”  was 
but  a revival  of  one  of  the  convivial  catches  at  Ballymahon : 

“ Then  come  put  the  jorum  about, 

And  let  us  be  merry  and  clever, 

Our  hearts  and  our  liquors  are  stout, 

Here’s  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  for  ever. 

Let  some  cry  of  woodcock  or  hare, 

Your  bustards,  your  ducks,  and  your  widgeons, 

But  of  all  the  gay  birds  in  the  air, 

Here’s  a health  to  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroli.” 


30 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Notwithstanding  all  these  accomplishments  and  this  rural 
popularity,  his  friends  began  to  shake  their  heads  and  shrug 
their  shoulders  when  they  spoke  of  him;  and  his  brother 
Henry  noted  with  anything  but  satisfaction  his  frequent  visits 
to  the  club  at  Ballymahon.  He  emerged,  however,  unscathed 
from  this  dangerous  ordeal,  more  fortunate  in  this  respect 
than  his  comrade  Bryanton ; but  he  retained  throughout  life 
a fondness  for  clubs ; often,  too,  in  the  course  of  his  checkered 
career,  he  looked  back  to  this  period  of  rural  sports  and  care- 
less enjoyments  as  one  of  the  few  sunny  spots  of  his  cloudy 
life ; and  though  he  ultimately  rose  to  associate  with  birds  of  a 
finer  feather,  his  heart  would  still  yearn  in  secret  after  the 
“ Three  Jolly  Pigeons.” 


CHAPTER  III. 

GOLDSMITH  REJECTED  BY  THE  BISHOP — SECOND  SALLY  TO  SEE 
THE  WORLD — TAKES  PASSAGE  FOR  AMERICA — SHIP  SAILS  WITH- 
OUT HIM — RETURN  ON  FIDDLE-BACK — A HOSPITABLE  FRIEND — 
THE  COUNSELLOR. 

The  time  was  now  arrived  for  Goldsmith  to  apply  for  orders, 
and  he  presented  himself  accordingly  before  the  Bishop  of 
Elfphn  for  ordination.  We  have  stated  his  great  objection  to 
clerical  life,  the  obligation  to  wear  a black  coat ; and,  whim- 
sical as  it  may  appear,  dress  seemed  in  fact  to  have  formed  an 
obstacle  to  his  entrance  into  the  church.  He  had  ever  a pas- 
sion for  clothing  his  sturdy  but  awkward  little  person  in  gay 
colors;  and  on  this  solemn  occasion,  when  it  was  to  be  sup- 
posed his  garb  would  be  of  suitable  gravity,  he  appeared 
luminously  arrayed  in  scarlet  breeches ! He  was  rejected  by 
the  bishop;  some  say  for  want  of  sufficient  studious  prepara- 
tion; his  rambles  and  frolics  with  Boh  Bryanton,  and  his  revels 
with  the  club  at  Ballymahon,  having  been  much  in  the  way  of 
his  theological  studies ; others  attribute  his  rejection  to  reports 
of  his  college  irregularities,  which  the  bishop  had  received 
from  his  old  tyrant  Wilder;  but  those  who  look  into  the 
matter  with  more  knowing  eyes  pronounce  the  scarlet  breeches 
to  have  been  the  fundamental  objection.  “My  friends,”  says 
Goldsmith,  speaking  through  his  humorous  representative, 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


31 


the  “Man  in  Black” — “my  friends  were  now  perfectly  satis- 
fied I was  undone ; and  yet  they  thought  it  a pity  for  one  that 
had  not  the  least  harm  in  him,  and  was  so  very  good-natured.” 
His  uncle  Contarine,  however,  still  remained  unwavering  in 
his  kindness,  though  much  less  sanguine  in  his  expectations. 
He  now  looked  round  for  a humbler  sphere  of  action,  and 
through  his  influence  and  exertions  Oliver  was  received  as 
tutor  in  the  family  of  a Mr.  Flinn,  a gentleman  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. The  situation  was  apparently  respectable;  he  had 
his  seat  at  the  table,  and  joined  the  family  in  their  domestic 
recreations  and  their  evening  game  at  cards.  There  was  a 
servility,  however,  in  his  position,  which  was  not  to  his  taste ; 
nor  did  his  deference  for  the  family  increase  upon  familiar  in- 
tercourse. He  charged  a member  of  it  with  unfair  play  at 
cards.  A violent  altercation  ensued,  which  ended  in  his 
throwing  up  his  situation  as  tutor.  On  being  paid  off  he  found 
himself  in  possession  of  an  unheard  of  amount  of  money.  His 
wandering  propensity  and  his  desire  to  see  the  world  were 
instantly  in  the  ascendency.  Without  communicating  his 
plans  or  intentions  to  his  friends,  he  procured  a good  horse, 
and  with  thirty  pounds  in  his  pocket  made  his  second  sally 
forth  into  the  world. 

The  worthy  niece  and  housekeeper  of  the  hero  of  La  Mancha 
could  not  have  been  more  surprised  and  dismayed  at  one  of 
the  Don’s  clandestine  expeditions,  than  were  the  mother  and 
friends  of  Goldsmith  when  they  heard  of  his  mysterious  de- 
parture. Weeks  elapsed,  and  nothing  was  seen  or  heard  of 
him.  It  was  feared  that  he  had  left  the  country  on  one  of  his 
wandering  freaks,  and  his  poor  mother  was  reduced  almost  to 
despair,  when  one  day  he  arrived  at  her  door  almost  as  for- 
lorn in  plight  as  the  prodigal  son.  Of  his  thirty  pounds  not  a 
shilling  was  left ; and  instead  of  the  goodly  steed  on  which  he 
had  issued  forth  on  his  errantry,  he  was  mounted  on  a sorry 
little  pony,  which  he  had  nicknamed  Fiddle-back.  As  soon  as 
-.is  mother  was  well  assured  of  his  safety,  she  rated  him 
soundly  for  his  inconsiderate  conduct.  His  brothers  and  sis- 
ters,  who  were  tenderly  attached  to  him,  interfered,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  mollifying  her  ire;  and  whatever  lurking  anger  the 
good  dame  might  have,  was  no  doubt  effectually  vanquished 
by  the  following  whimsical  narrative  which  he  drew  up  at  his 
brother’s  house  and  dispatched  to  her : 

4 ‘ My  dear  mother,  if  you  will  sit  down  and  calmly  listen  to 
what  I say,  you  shall  be  fully  resolved  in  every  one  of  tliose 


32 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


many  questions  you  have  asked  me.  I went  to  Cork  and  con- 
verted my  horse,  which  you  prize  so  much  higher  than  Fiddlo 
back,  into  cash,  took  my  passage  in  a ship  bound  for  America, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  paid  the  captain  for  my  freight  and  all 
the  othor  expenses  of  my  voyage.  But  it  so  happened  that  the 
wind  did  not  answer  for  three  weeks;  and  you  know,  mother, 
that  I could  not  command  the  elements.  My  misfortune  was, 
that,  when  the  wind  served,  I happened  to  be  with  a party  in 
tlio  country,  and  my  friend  the  captain  never  inquired  after 
me,  but  set  sail  with  as  much  indifference  as  if  I had  been  on 
board.  The  remainder  of  my  time  I employed  in  the  city  and 
its  environs,  viewing  everything  curious,  and  you  know  no  one 
can  starve  while  he  has  money  in  his  pocket. 

“Reduced,  however,  to  my  last  two  guineas,  I began  to  think 
of  my  dear  mother  and  friends  whom  I had  left  behind  me. 
and  so  bought  that  generous  beast  Fiddle-back,  and  bade  adieu 
to  Cork  with  only  five  shillings  in  my  pocket.  This,  to  be  sure, 
was  but  a scanty  allowance  for  man  and  horse  toward  a jour- 
ney of  above  a hundred  miles ; but  I did  not  despair,  for  I kne^v 
I must  find  friends  on  the  road. 

“I  recollected  particularly  an  old  and  faithful  acquaintance 
I made  at  college,  who  had  often  and  earnestly  pressed  me  to 
spend  a summer  with  him,  and  he  lived  but  eight  miles  from 
Cork.  This  circumstance  of  vicinity  he  would  expatiate  on  to 
me  with  peculiar  emphasis.  ‘We  shall,’  says  he,  ‘enjoy  the 
delights  of  both  city  and  country,  and  you  shall  command  my 
stable  and  my  purse.  ’ 

‘ 4 However,  upon  the  way  I met  a poor  woman  all  in  tears, 
who  told  me  her  husband  had  been  arrested  for  a debt  he  was 
not  able  to  pay,  and  that  his  eight  children  must  now  starve, 
bereaved  as  they  were  of  his  industry,  which  had  been  their 
only  support.  I thought  myself  at  home,  being  not  far  from 
my  good  friend’s  house,  and  therefore  parted  with  a moiety  of 
all  my  store ; and  pray,  mother,  ought  I not  to  have  given  her 
the  other  half  crown,  for  what  she  got  would  be  of  little  use  to 
her?  However,  I soon  arrived  at  the  mansion  of  my  affection- 
ate friend,  guarded  by  the  vigilance  of  a huge  mastiff,  who 
flew  at  me  and  would  have  torn  me  to  pieces  but  for  the  assist- 
ance of  a woman,  whose  countenance  was  not  less  grim  than 
that  of  the  dog;  yet  she  with  great  humanity  relieved  me  from 
the  jaws  of  this  Cerberus,  and  was  prevailed  on  to  carry  up  my 
name  to  her  master. 

“Without  suffering  me  to  wait  long,  my  old  friend,  who  was 


OLIVER  Q OLD  SMITH. 


33 


then  recovering  from  a severe  fit  of  sickness,  came  down  in  his 
nightcap,  nightgown,  and  slippers,  and  embraced  me  with  the 
most  cordial  welcome,  showed  me  in,  and,  after  giving  me  a 
history  of  his  indisposition,  assured  me  that  he  considered  him- 
self peculiarly  fortunate  in  having  under  his  roof  the  man  he 
most  loved  on  earth,  and  whose  stay  with  him  must,  above  all 
things,  contribute  to  perfect  his  recovery.  I now  repented 
sorely  I had  not  given  the  poor  woman  the  other  half  crown, 
as  I thought  all  my  bills  of  humanity  would  be  punctually  an- 
swered by  this  worthy  man.  I revealed  to  him  my  whole  soul ; 
I opened  to  him  all  my  distresses ; and  freely  owned  that  I had 
but  one  half  crown  in  my  pocket ; but  that  now,  like  a ship 
after  weathering  out  the  storm,  I considered  myself  secure  in  a 
safe  and  hospitable  harbor.  He  made  no  answer,  but  walked 
about  the  room,  rubbing  his  hands  as  one  in  deep  study.  This 
I imputed  to  the  sympathetic  feelings  of  a tender  heart,  which 
increased  my  esteem  for  him,  and,  as  that  increased,  I gave  the 
most  favorable  interpretation  to  his  silence.  I construed  it  info 
delicacy  of  sentiment,  as  if  he  dreaded  to  wound  my  pride  by 
expressing  his  commiseration  in  words,  leaving  his  generous 
conduct  to  speak  for  itself. 

“ It  now  approached  six  o’clock  in  the  evening;  and  as  I had 
eaten  no  breakfast,  and  as  my  spirits  were  raised,  my  appetite 
for  dinner  grew  uncommonly  keen.  At  length  the  old  woman 
came  into  the  room  with  two  plates,  one  spoon,  and  a dirty 
cloth,  which  she  laid  upon  the  table.  This  appearance,  without 
increasing  my  spirits,  did  not  diminish  my  appetite.  My  pro- 
tectress soon  returned  with  a small  bowl  of  sago,  a small  por- 
ringer of  sour  milk,  a loaf  of  stale  brown  bread,  and  the  heel  of 
an  old  cheese  all  over  crawling  with  mites.  My  friend  apolo- 
gized that  his  illness  obliged  him  to  live  on  slops,  and  that  bet- 
ter fare  was  not  in  the  house;  observing,  at  the  same  time, 
that  a milk  diet  was  certainly  the  most  healthful ; and  at  eight 
o’clock  he  again  recommended  a regular  life,  declaring  that  for 
his  part  he  would  lie  down  with  the  lamb  and  rise  with  the  lark. 
My  hunger  was  at  this  time  so  exceedingly  sharp  that  I wished 
for  another  slice  of  the  loaf,  but  was  obliged  to  go  to  bed  with- 
out even  that  refreshment. 

4 ‘ This  lenten  entertainment  I had  received  made  me  resolve 
to  depart  as  soon  as  possible ; accordingly,  next  morning,  when 
I spoke  of  going,  he  did  not  oppose  my  resolution ; he  rather 
commended  my  design,  adding  some  very  sage  counsel  upon 
the  occasion.  ‘ To  be  sure,  ’ said  he,  ‘ the  longer  you  stay  away 


34 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


from  your  mother,  the  more  you  will  grieve  her  and  your  other 
friends;  and  possibly  they  are  already  afflicted  at  hearing  of 
this  foolish  expedition  you  have  made.’  Notwithstanding  all 
this,  and  without  any  hope  of  softening  such  a sordid  heart,  I 
again  renewed  the  tale  of  my  distress,  and  asking  ‘how  he 
thought  I could  travel  above  a hundred  miles  upon  one  half 
crown?’  I begged  to  borrow  a single  guinea,  which  I assured 
him  should  be  repaid  with  thanks.  ‘ And  you  know,  sir,’  said 
I,  ‘ it  is  no  more  than  I have  done  for  you.  ’ To  which  he  firmly 
answered,  ‘ Why,  look  you,  Mr.  Goldsmith,  that  is  neither  here 
nor  there.  I have  paid  you  all  you  ever  lent  me,  and  this 
sickness  of  mine  has  left  me  bare  of  cash.  But  I have  be- 
thought myself  of  a conveyance  for  you ; sell  your  horse,  and  1 
will  furnish  you  a much  better  one  to  ride  on.’  I readily 
grasped  at  his  proposal,  and  begged  to  see  the  nag;  on  which 
he  led  me  to  his  bedchamber,  and  from  under  the  bed  he  pulled 
out  a stout  oak  stick.  4 Here  he  is,’  said  he ; ‘ take  this  in  your 
hand,  and  it  will  carry  you  to  your  mother’s  with  more  safety 
than  such  a horse  as  you  ride.  ’ I was  in  doubt,  when  I got  it 
into  my  hand,  whether  I should  not,  in  the  first  place,  apply  it 
to  his  pate ; but  a rap  at  the  street  door  made  the  wretch  fly  to 
it,  and  when  I returned  to  the  parlor,  he  introduced  me,  as  if 
nothing  of  the  kind  had  happened,  to  the  gentleman  who  en- 
tered, as  Mr.*  Goldsmith,  his  most  ingenious  and  worthy  friend, 
of  whom  he  had  so  often  heard  him  speak  with  rapture.  1 
could  scarcely  compose  myself,  and  must  have  betrayed  indig- 
nation in  my  mien  to  the  stranger,  who  was  a counsellor-at- 
law  in  the  neighborhood,  a man  of  engaging  aspect  and  polite 
address. 

“After  spending  an  hour,  he  asked  my  friend  and  me  to 
dine  with  him  at  his  house.  This  I declined  at  first,  as  I 
wished  to  have  no  farther  communication  with  my  hospitable 
friend ; but  at  the  solicitation  of  both  I at  last  consented,  de- 
termined as  I was  by  two  motives : one,  that  I was  prejudiced 
in  favor  of  the  looks  and  manner  of  the  counsellor;  and  the 
other,  that  I stood  in  need  of  a comfortable  dinner.  And 
there,  indeed,  I found  everything  that  I could  wish,  abund- 
ance without  profusion,  and  elegance  without  affectation.  In 
the  evening,  when  my  old  friend,  who  had  eaten  very  plenti- 
fully at  his  neighbor’s  table,  but  talked  again  of  lying  down 
with  the  lamb,  made  a motion  to  me  for  retiring,  our  generous 
host  requested  I should  take  a bed  with  him.  upon  which  I 
plainly  told  my  old  friend  that  he  might  go  home  and  take 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


35 


care  of  tlir  horse  he  had  given  me,  but  that  I should  never  re- 
enter his  doors.  He  went  away  with  a laugh,  leaving  me  to 
add  this  to  the  other  little  things  the  counsellor  already  knew 
of  his  plausible  neighbor. 

“ And  now,  my  dear  mother,  I found  sufficient  to  reconcile 
me  to  all  my  follies ; for  here  I spent  three  whole  days.  The 
counsellor  had  two  sweet  girls  to  his  daughters,  who  played 
enchantingly  on  the  harpsichord ; and  yet  it  was  but  a mel- 
ancholy pleasure  I felt  the  first  time  I heard  them;  for  that 
being  the  first  time  also  that  either  of  them  had  touched  the 
instrument  since  their  mother’s  death,  I saw  the  tears  in 
silence  trickle  down  their  father’s  cheeks.  I every  day  en- 
deavored to  go  away,  but  every  day  was  pressed  and  obliged 
to  stay.  On  my  going,  the  counsellor  offered  me  his  purse, 
with  a horse  and  servant  to  convey  me  home ; but  the  latter  I 
declined,  and  only  took  a guinea  to  bear  my  necessary  ex- 
penses on  the  road. 

“Oliver  Goldsmith. 

“To  Mrs.  Anne  Goldsmith,  Ballymakon.” 

Such  is  the  story  given  by  the  poet-errant  of  this  his  second 
sally  in  quest  of  adventures.  We  cannot  but  think  it  was 
here  and  there  touched  up  a little  with  the  fanciful  pen  of  the 
future  essayist,  with  a view  to  amuse  his  mother  and  soften 
her  vexation;  but  even  in  these  respects  it  is  valuable  as 
showing  the  early  play  of  his  humor,  and  his  happy  knack  of 
extracting  sweets  from  that  worldly  experience  which  to 
others  yields  nothing  but  bitterness. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SALLIES  FORTH  AS  A LAW  STUDENT— STUMBLES  AT  THE  OUTSET 
—COUSIN  JANE  AND  TIIE  VALENTINE — A FAMILY  ORACLE — SAL- 
LIES FORTH  AS  A STUDENT  OF  MEDICINE — HOCUS-POCUS  OF  A 
BOARDING-HOUSE— TRANSFORMATIONS  OF  A LEG  OF  MUTTON — 
THE  MOCK  GHOST — SKETCHES  OF  SCOTLAND — TRIALS  OF  TOADY- 
ISM—A POET’S  PURSE  FOR  A CONTINENTAL  TOUR. 

A new  consultation  was  held  among  Goldsmith’s  friends  as 
to  his  future  course,  and  it  was  determined  he  should  try  the 
law.  His  uncle  Contarine  agreed  to  advance  the  necessary 
funds,  and  actually  furnished  him  with  fifty  pounds,  with 


30 


OLIVE  It  GOLDSMITH 


wliich  ho  set  off  for  London,  to  enter  on  his  studies  the 
Temple.  Unfortunately,  he  fell  in  company  at  Dublin  with  a 
Roscommon  acquaintance,  one  whose  wits  had  been  sharpened 
about  town,  who  beguiled  him  into  a gambling-house,  and 
soon  left  him  as  penniless  as  when  he  bestrode  the  redoubtable 
Fiddle-back. 

He  was  so  ashamed  of  this  fresh  instance  of  gross  heedless- 
ness and  imprudence  that  he  remained  some  time  in  Dublin 
without  communicating  to  his  friends  his  destitute  condition. 
They  heard  of  it,  however,  and  he  was  invited  hack  to  the 
country,  and  indulgently  forgiven  by  his  generous  uncle,  but 
less  readily  by  his  mother,  who  was  mortified  and  disheart- 
ened at  seeing  all  her  early  hopes  of  him  so  repeatedly  blighted. 
His  brother  Henry,  too,  began  to  lose  patience  at  these  suc- 
cessive failures,  resulting  from  thoughtless  indiscretion;  and 
a quarrel  took  place,  which  for  some  time  interrupted  their 
usually  affectionate  intercourse. 

The  only  home  where  poor  erring  Goldsmith  still  received  a 
welcome  was  the  parsonage  of  his  affectionate,  forgiving 
uncle.  Here  he  used  to  talk  of  literature  with  the  good, 
simple-hearted  man,  and  delight  him  and  his  daughter  with 
his  verses.  Jane,  his  early  playmate,  was  now  the  woman 
grown ; their  intercourse  was  of  a more  intellectual  kind  than 
formerly ; they  discoursed  of  poetry  and  music ; she  played  on 
the  harpsichord,  and  he  accompanied  her  with  his  flute.  The 
music  may  not  have  been  very  artistic,  as  he  never  performed 
but  by  ear;  it  had  probably  as  much  merit  as  the  poetry, 
which,  if  we  may  judge  by  the  following  specimen,  was  as  yet 
but  juvenile: 

TO  A YOUNG  LADY  ON  VALENTINE’S  DAY. 

N WITH  THE  DRAWING  OF  A HEART. 

With  submission  at  your  shrine, 

Comes  a heart  your  Valentine; 

From  the  side  where  once  it  grew, 

See  it  panting  flies  to  you. 

Take  it,  fair  one,  to  your  breast, 

Soothe  the  fluttering  thing  to  rest; 

Let  the  gentle,  spotless  toy, 

Be  your  sweetest,  greatest  joy; 

Every  night  when  wrapp'd  in  sleep, 

Next  your  heart  the  conquest  keep; 

Or  if  dreams  your  fancy  move, 

Hear  it  whisper  me  and  love; 

Then  in  pity  to  the  swain. 

Who  must  heartless  else  remain, 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


37 


Soft  as  gentle  dewy  show’rs, 

Slow  descend  on  April  flow’rs; 
Soft  as  gentle  riv’lets  glide, 

Steal  unnoticed  to  my  side; 

If  the  gem  you  have  to  spare, 
Take  your  own  and  place  it  there. 


If  this  valentine  was  intended  for  the  fair  Jane,  and  expres- 
sive of  a tender  sentiment  indulged  by  the  stripling  poet,  it 
was  unavailing,  as  not  long  afterward  she  was  married  to  a 
Mr.  Lawder.  We  trust,  however,  it  was  but  a poetical  pas- 
sion of  that  transient  kind  which  grows  up  in  idleness  and  ex- 
hales itself  in  rhyme.  While  Oliver  was  thus  piping  and  poet- 
izing at  the  parsonage,  his  uncle  Contarine  received  a visit 
from  Dean  Goldsmith  of  Cloyne;  a kind  of  magnate  in  the 
wide  but  improvident  family  connection,  throughout  which 
his  word  was  law  and  almost  gospel.  This  august  dignitary 
was  pleased  to  discover  signs  of  talent  in  Oliver,  and  suggested 
that  as  he  had  attempted  divinity  and  law  without  success,  he 
should  now  try  physic.  The  advice  came  from  too  important 
a source  to  be  disregarded,  and  it  was  determined  to  send  him 
to  Edinburgh  to  commence  his  studies.  The  Dean  having 
given  the  advice,  added  to  it,  we  trust,  his  blessing,  but  no 
money ; that  was  furnished  from  the  scantier  purses  of  Gold- 
smith’s brother,  his  sister  (Mrs.  Hodson)  and  his  ever  ready 
uncle,  Contarine. 

It  was  in  the  autumn  of  1752  that  Goldsmith  arrived  in 
Edinburgh.  His  outset  in  that  city  came  near  adding  to  the 
list  of  his  indiscretions  and  disasters.  Having  taken  lodgings 
at  haphazard,  he  left  his  trunk  there,  containing  all  his  worldly 
effects,  and  sallied  forth  to  see  the  town.  After  sauntering 
about  the  streets  until  a late  hour,  he  thought  of  returning 
home,  when,  to  his  confusion,  he  found  he  had  not  acquainted 
himself  with  the  name  either  of  his  landlady  or  of  the  street  in 
which  she  lived.  Fortunately,  in  the  height  of  his  whimsical 
perplexity,  he  met  the  cawdy  or  porter  who  had  carried  his 
trunk,  and  who  now  served  him  as  a guide. 

He  did  not  remain  long  in  the  lodgings  in  which  he  had  put 
up.  The  hostess  was  too  adroit  at  that  hocus-pocus  of  the 
table  which  often  is  practised  in  cheap  boarding-houses.  No 
one  could  conjure  a single  joint  through  a greater  variety  of 
forms.  A loin  of  mutton,  according  to  Goldsmith’s  account, 
would  serve  him  and  two  fellow-students  a whole  week.  “ A 
brand ored  chop  was  served  up  one  day,  a fried  steak  another 


38 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


collops  with  onion  sauce  a third,  and  so  on  until  the  fleshy 
parts  were  quite  consumed,  when  finally  a dish  of  broth  was 
manufactured  from  the  hones  on  the  seventh  day,  and  the 
landlady  rested  from  her  labors.”  Goldsmith  had  a good- 
humored  mode  of  taking  things,  and  for  a short  time  amused 
himself  with  the  shifts  and  expedients  of  his  landlady,  which 
struck  him  in  a ludicrous  manner;  he  soon,  however,  fell  in 
with  fellow-students  from  his  own  country,  whom  he  joined  at 
more  eligible  quarters. 

He  now  attended  medical  lectures,  and  attached  himself  to 
an  association  of  students  called  the  Medical  Society.  He  set 
out,  as  usual,  with  the  best  intentions,  but,  as  usual,  soon  fell 
into  idle,  convivial,  thoughtless  habits.  Edinburgh  was  in- 
deed a place  of  sore  trial  for  one  of  his  temperament.  Con- 
vivial meetings  were  all  the  vogue,  and  the  tavern  was  the 
universal  rallying-place  of  good-fellowship.  And  then  Gold- 
smith’s intimacies  lay  chiefly  among  the  Irish  students,  who 
were  always  ready  for  a wild  freak  and  frolic.  Among  them 
he  was  a prime  favorite  and  somewhat  of  a leader,  from  his 
exuberance  of  spirits,  his  vein  of  humor,  and  his  talent  at 
singing  an  Irish  song  and  telling  an  Irish  story. 

His  usual  carelessness  in  money  matters  attended  him. 
Though  his  supplies  from  home  were  scanty  and  irregular,  he 
never  could  bring  himself  into  habits  of  prudence  and  econ- 
omy ; often  he  was  stripped  of  all  his  present  finances  at  play ; 
often  he  lavished  them  away  in  fits  of  unguarded  charity  or 
generosity.  Sometimes  among  his  boon  companions  he  as- 
sumed a ludicrous  swagger  in  money  matters,  which  no  one 
afterward  was  more  ready  than  himself  to  laugh  at.  At  a 
convivial  meeting  with  a number  of  his  fellow-students,  he 
suddenly  proposed  to  draw  lots  with  any  one  present  which 
of  the  two  should  treat  the  whole  party  to  the  play.  The 
moment  the  proposition  had  bolted  from  his  lips,  his  heart 
was  in  his  throat.  “ To  my  great  though  secret  joy,”  said  he, 
“they  all  declined  the  challenge.  Had  it  been  accepted,  and 
had  I proved  the  loser,  a part  of  my  wardrobe  must  have  been 
pledged  in  order  to  raise  the  money.” 

At  another  of  these  meetings  there  was  an  earnest  dispute 
on  the  question  of  ghosts,  some  being  firm  believers  in  the  pos- 
sibility of  departed  spirits  returning  to  visit  their  friends  and 
familiar  haunts.  One  of  the  disputants  set  sail  the  next 
day  for  London,  but  the  vessel  put  back  through  stress  of 
weather.  His  return  was  unknown  except  to  one  of  the  be- 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


39 


lievers  in  ghosts,  who  concerted  with  him  a trick  to  be  played 
off  on  the  opposite  party.  In  the  evening,  at  a meeting  of  the 
students,  the  discussion  was  renewed;  and  one  of  the  most 
strenuous  opposers  of  ghosts  was  asked  whether  he  considered 
himself  proof  against  ocular  demonstration?  He  persisted  in 
his  scoffing.  Some  solemn  process  of  conjuration  was  per- 
formed, and  the  comrade  supposed  to  be  on  his  way  to  Lon- 
don made  his  appearance.  The  effect  was  fatal.  The  unbe- 
liever fainted  at  the  sight,  and  ultimately  went  mad.  We 
have  no  account  of  what  share  Goldsmith  took  in  this  transac- 
tion, at  which  he  was  present. 

The  following  letter  to  his  friend  Bryanton  contains  some  of 
Goldsmith’s  impressions  concerning  Scotland  and  its  inhabi- 
tants, and  gives  indications  of  that  humor  which  characterized 
some  of  his  later  writings. 


“ Robert  Bryanton , at  Ballymahon , Ireland. 

“ Edinburgh,  September  26,  1753. 

“My  dear  Bob:  How  many  good  excuses  (and  you  know 
I was  ever  good  at  an  excuse)  might  I call  up  to  vindicate  my 
past  shameful  silence.  I might  tell  how  I wrote  a long  letter 
on  my  first  coming  hither,  and  seem  vastly  angry  at  my  not 
receiving  an  answer ; I might  allege  that  business  (with  busi- 
ness you  know  I was  always  pestered)  had  never  given  me 
time  to  finger  a pen.  But  I suppress  those  and  twenty  more 
as  plausible,  and  as  easily  invented,  since  they  might  be  at- 
tended with  a slight  inconvenience  of  being  known  to  be  lies. 
Let  me  then  speak  truth.  An  hereditary  indolence  (I  have  it 
from  the  mother’s  side)  has  hitherto  prevented  my  writing  to 
you,  and  still  prevents  my  writing  at  least  twenty-five  letters 
more,  due  to  my  friends  in  Ireland.  No  turn-spit-dog  gets  up 
into  his  wheel  with  more  reluctance  than  I sit  down  to  write; 
yet  no  dog  ever  loved  the  roast  meat  he  turns  better  than  I do 
him  I now  address. 

“Yet  what  shall  I say  now  I am  entered?  Shall  I tire  you 
with  a description  of  this  unfruitful  country;  where  I must 
lead  you  over  their  hills  all  brown  with  heath,  or  their  valleys 
scarcely  able  to  feed  a rabbit?  Man  alone  seems  to  be  the  only 
creature  who  has  arrived  to  the  natural  size  in  this  poor  soil. 
Every  part  of  the  country  presents  the  same  dismal  landscape. 
No  grove,  nor  brook,  lend  their  music  to  cheer  the  stranger,  or 
make  the  inhabitants  forget  their  poverty.  Yet  with  all  these 


40 


OL1  VKll  G OLl) SMITH. 


disadvantages  to  call  him  down  to  humility,  a Scotchman  is 
one  of  the  proudest  things  alive.  The  poor  have  pride  ever 
ready  to  relieve  them.  If  mankind  should  happen  to  despise 
them,  they  are  masters  of  their  own  admiration,  and  that  they 
can  plentifully  bestow  upon  themselves. 

“From  their  prido  and  poverty,  as  I take  it,  results  one  ad- 
vantage this  country  enjoys  namely,  the  gentlemen  here  are 
much  better  bred  than  among  us.  No  such  character  here  as 
our  fox-hunters ; and  they  have  expressed  great  surprise  when 
I informed  them  that  some  men  in  Ireland  of  one  thousand 
pounds  a year  spend  their  whole  lives  in  running  after  a hare, 
and  drinking  to  be  drunk.  Truly  if  such  a being,  equipped  in 
his  hunting  dress,  came  among  a circle  of  Scotch  gentry,  they 
would  behold  him  with  the  same  astonishment  that  a country- 
man does  King  George  on  horseback. 

‘ ‘ The  men  here  have  generally  high  cheek  bones,  and  are 
lean  and  swarthy,  fond  of  action,  dancing  in  particular.  Now 
that  I have  mentioned  dancing,  let  me  say  something  of  their 
balls,  which  are  very  frequent  here.  When  a stranger  enters 
the  dancing-hall,  he  sees  one  end  of  the  room  taken  up  by  the 
ladies,  who  sit  dismally  in  a group  by  themselves ; in  the  other 
end  stand  their  pensive  partners  that  are  to  be ; but  no  more 
intercourse  between  the  sexes  than  there  is  between  two 
countries  at  war.  The  ladies  indeed  may  ogle,  and  the  gentle- 
men sigh;  but  an  embargo  is  laid  on  any  closer  commerce. 
At  length,  to  interrupt  hostilities,  the  lady  directress,  or  in- 
tendant,  or  what  you  will,  pitches  upon  a lady  and  gentleman 
to  walk  a minuet;  which  they  perform  with  formality  that  ap- 
proaches to  despondence.  After  five  or  six  couple  have  thus 
walked  the  gauntlet,  all  stand  up  to  country  dances;  each 
gentleman  furnished  with  a partner  from  the  aforesaid  lady 
directress;  so  they  dance  much,  say  nothing,  and  thus  con- 
cludes our  assembly.  I told  a Scotch  gentleman  that  such 
profound  silence  resembled  the  ancient  procession  of  the 
Roman  matrons  in  honor  of  Ceres ; and  the  Scotch  gentleman 
told  me  (and,  faith,  I believe  he  was  right)  that  I was  a very 
great  pedant  for  my  pains. 

“Now  I am  come  to  the  ladies;  and  to  show  that  I love 
Scotland,  and  everything  that  belongs  to  so  charming  a 
country,  I insist  on  it,  and  will  give  him  leave  to  break  my 
head  that  denies  it — that  the  Scotch  ladies  are  ten  thousand 
times  finer  and  handsomer  than  the  Irish.  To  be  sure,  now, 
I see  your  sisters  Betty  and  Peggy  vastly  surprised  at  my 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


41 


partiality — but  tell  them  flatly,  I don’t  value  them — or  their 
fine  skins,  or  eyes,  or  good  sense,  or  — — , a potato ; — for  I say, 
and  will  maintain  it ; and  as  a convincing  proof  (I  am  in  a 
great  passion)  of  what  I assert,  the  Scotch  ladies  say  it  them- 
selves. But  to  he  less  serious;  where  will  you  find  a language 
so  prettily  become  a pretty  mouth  as  the  broad  Scotch?  And 
the  women  here  speak  it  in  its  highest  purity ; for  instance, 
teach  one  of  your  young  ladies  at  home  to  pronounce  the 
4 Whoar  wull  I gong?  ’ with  a becoming  widening  cf  mouth, 
and  I’ll  lay  my  life  they’ll  wound  every  hearer. 

“We  have  no  such  character  here  as  a coquet,  but  alas!  how 
many  envious  prudes ! Some  days  ago  I walked  into  my  Lord 
Kilcoubry’s  (don’t  be  surprised,  my  lord  is  but  a glover),*  when 
the  Duchess  of  Hamilton  (that  fair  who  sacrificed  her  beauty 
to  her  ambition,  and  her  inward  peace  to  a title  and  gilt  equi- 
page) passed  by  in  her  chariot ; her  battered  husband,  or  more 
properly  the  guardian  of  her  charms,  sat  by  her  side.  Straight 
envy  began,  in  the  shape  of  no  less  than  three  ladies  who  sat 
with  me,  to  find  faults  in  her  faultless  form.  4 For  my  part,’ 
says  the  first,  4 1 think  what  I always  thought,  that  the  Duch- 
ess has  too  much  of  the  red  in  her  complexion.’  4 Madam,  I 
am  not  of  your  opinion,’  says  the  second ; 4 1 think  her  face  has 
a palish  cast  too  much  on  the  delicate  order.  ’ 4 And  let  me  tell 

you,  ’ added  the  third  lady,  whose  mouth  was  puckered  up  to 
the  size  of  an  issue,  4 that  the  Duchess  has  fine  bps,  but  she 
wants  a mouth.’  At  this  every  lady  drew  up  her  mouth  as  if 
going  to  pronounce  the  letter  P. 

4 4 But  how  ill,  my  Bob,  does  it  become  me  to  ridicule  women 
with  whom  I have  scarcely  any  correspondence ! There  are, 
’tis  certain,  handsome  women  here;  and  ’tis  certain  they  have 
handsome  men  to  keep  them  company.  An  ugly  and  poor 
man  is  society  only  for  himself ; and  such  society  the  world 
lets  me  enjoy  in  great  abundance.  Fortune  has  given  you  cir- 
cumstances, and  nature  a person  to  look  charming  in  the  eyes 
of  the  fair.  Nor  do  I envy  my  dear  Bob  such  blessings,  while 
I may  sib  down  and  laugh  at  the  world  and  at  myself — the 
most  ridiculous  object  in  it.  But  you  see  I am  grown  down- 
right splenetic,  and  perhaps  the  fit  may  continue  till  I receive 


* William  Maclellan,  who  claimed  the  title,  and  whose  son  succeeded  in  establish- 
ing the  claim  in  1773.  The  father  is  said  to  have  voted  at  the  election  of  the  six- 
teen Peers  for  Scotland,  and  to  have  sold  gloves  in  the  lobby  at  this  and  other  public 
.assemblages 


42 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


an  answer  to  this.  I know  yon  cannot  send  me  much  news 
from  Ballymahon,  but  such  as  it  is,  send  it  all;  every  thing  you 
send  will  be  agreeable  to  me. 

“Has  George  Conway  put  up  a sign  yet;  or  John  Binley  left 
off  drinking  drams;  or  Tom  Allen  got  a new  wig?  But  I leave 
you  to  your  own  choice  what  to  write.  While  I live,  know 
you  have  a true  friend  in  yours,  etc.,  etc., 

“Oliver  Goldsmith. 

“P.S.  Give  my  sincere  respects  (not  compliments,  do  you 
mind)  to  your  agreeable  family,  and  give  my  service  to  my 
mother,  if  you  see  her ; for,  as  you  express  it  in  Ireland,  I have 

a sneaking  kindness  for  her  still.  Direct  to  me, , Student 

in  Physic,  in  Edinburgh.” 

Nothing  worthy  of  preservation  appeared  from  his  pen  dur- 
ing his  residence  in  Edinburgh ; and  indeed  his  poetical  powers, 
highly  as  they  had  been  estimated  by  his  friends,  had  not  as 
yet  produced  anything  of  superior  merit.  He  made  on  one  oc- 
casion a months  excursion  to  the  Highlands.  ‘ ‘ I set  out  the 
first  day  on  foot,”  says  he,  in  a letter  to  his  uncle  Contarine, 
“but  an  ill-natured  corn  I have  on  my  toe  has  for  the  future 
prevented  that  cheap  mode  of  travelling ; so  the  second  day  I 
hired  a horse  about  the  size  of  a ram,  and  he  walked  away  (trot 
he  could  not)  as  pensive  as  his  master.” 

During  his  residence  in  Scotland  his  convivial  talents  gained 
him  at  one  time  attentions  in  a high  quarter,  which,  however, 
he  had  the  good  sense  to  appreciate  correctly.  4 4 1 have  spent,  ” 
says  he,  in  one  of  his  letters,  “more  than  a fortnight  every 
second  day  at  the  Duke  of  Hamilton’s ; but  it  seems  they  like 
me  more  as  a jester  than  as  a companion,  so  I disdained  so  ser- 
vile an  employment  as  unworthy  my  calling  as  a physician.” 
Here  we  again  find  the  origin  of  another  passage  in  his  auto- 
biography, under  the  character  of  the  4 4 Man  in  Black,”  where- 
in that  worthy  figures  as  a flatterer  to  a great  man.  4 4 At 
first,”  says  he,  “I  was  surprised  that  the  situation  of  a flat- 
terer at  a great  man’s  table  could  be  thought  disagreeable; 
there  was  no  great  trouble  in  listening  attentively  when  his 
lordship  spoke,  and  laughing  when  he  looked  round  for  ap- 
plause. This,  even  good  manners  might  have  obliged  me  to 
perform.  I found,  however,  too  soon,  his  lordship  was  a 
greater  dunce  than  myself,  and  from  that  moment  flattery  was 
at  an  end.  I now  rather  aimed  at  setting  him  right,  than  at 


OLlVtia  GOLDSMITH. 


43 


receiving  his  absurdities  with  submission : to  flatter  those  we 
do  not  know  is  an  easy  task ; but  to  flatter  our  intimate  ac- 
quaintances, all  whose  foibles  are  strongly  in  our  eyes,  is 
drudgery  insupportable.  Every  time  I now  opened  my  lips 
in  praise,  my  falsehood  went  to  my  conscience;  his  lordship 
soon  perceived  me  to  be  very  unfit  for  his  service:  I was 
therefore  discharged ; my  patron  at  the  same  time  being  gra- 
ciously pleased  to  observe  that  he  believed  I was  tolerably 
good-natured,  and  had  not  the  least  harm  in  me.” 

After  spending  two  winters  at  Edinburgh,  Goldsmith  pre- 
pared to  finish  his  medical  studies  on  the  Continent,  for  which 
his  uncle  Contarine  agreed  to  furnish  the  funds.  ‘ ‘ I intend,  ” 
said  he,  in  a letter  to  his  uncle,  4 ‘ to  visit  Paris,  where  the 
great  Farheim,  Petit,  and  Du  Hamel  de  Monceau  instruct 
their  pupils  in  all  the  branches  of  medicine.  They  speak 
French,  and  consequently  I shall  have  much  the  advantage  of 
most  of  my  countrymen,  as  I am  perfectly  acquainted  with 
that  language,  and  few  who  leave  Ireland  are  so.  I shall 
spend  the  spring  and  summer  in  Paris,  and  the  beginning  of 
next  winter  go  to  Leyden.  The  great  Albinus  is  still  alive 
there,  and  ’twill  be  proper  to  go,  though  only  to  have  it  said 
that  we  have  studied  in  so  famous  a university. 

“ As  I shall  not  have  another  opportunity  of  receiving  money 
from  your  bounty  till  my  return  to  Ireland,  so  I have  drawn 
for  the  last  sum  that  I hope  I shall  ever  trouble  you  for ; ’tis 
£20.  And  now,  dear  sir,  let  me  here  acknowledge  the  humility 
of  the  station  in  which  you  found  me ; let  me  tell  how  I was 
despised  by  most,  and  hateful  to  myself.  Poverty,  hopeless 
poverty,  was  my  lot,  and  Melancholy  was  beginning  to  make 
me  her  own.  When  you— but  I stop  here,  to  inquire  how  your 
health  goes  on?  How  does  my  cousin  Jenny,  and  has  she  re- 
covered her  late  complaint?  How  does  my  poor  Jack  Gold- 
smith? I fear  his  disorder  is  of  such  a nature  as  he  won’t 
easily  recover.  I wish,  my  dear  sir,  you  would  make  me 
happy  by  another  letter  before  I go  abroad,  for  there  I shall 
hardly  hear  from  you.  . . . Give  my— how  shall  I express  it? 
Give  my  earnest  love  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lawder.” 

Mrs.  Lawder  was  Jane,  his  early  playmate— the  object  of 
his  valentine— his  first  poetical  inspiration.  She  had  been 
for  some  time  married. 

Medical  instruction,  it  will  be  perceived,  was  the  ostensible 
motive  for  this  visit  to  the  Continent,  but  the  real  one,  in  ail 

probability,  was  his  long-cherished  desire  to  see  foreign  parts 


44 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


This,  however,  he  would  not  acknowledge  even  to  himself,  but 
sought  to  reconcile  his  roving  propensities  with  some  grand 
moral  purpose.  ‘ ‘ I esteem  the  traveller  who  instructs  the 
heart,”  says  he,  in  one  of  his  subsequent  writings,  “ but  despise 
him  who  only  indulges  the  imagination.  A man  who  leaves 
home  to  mend  himself  and  others  is  a philosopher;  but  he  who 
goes  from  country  to  country,  guided  by  the  blind  impulse  of 
curiosity,  is  only  a vagabond.”  He,  of  course,  was  to  travel  as 
a philosopher,  and  in  truth  his  outfits  for  a continental  tour* 
were  in  character.  “I  shall  carry  just  £33  to  France,”  said  he, 
“with  good  store  of  clothes,  shirts,  etc.,  and  that  with 
economy  will  suffice.  ” He  forgot  to  make  mention  of  his  flute, 
which  it  will  be  found  had  occasionally  to  come  in  play  when 
economy  could  not  replenish  his  purse,  nor  philosophy  find 
him  a supper.  Thus  slenderly  provided  with  money,  pru- 
dence, or  experience,  and  almost  as  slightly  guarded  against 
“hard  knocks”  as  the  hero  of  La  Mancha,  whose  head-piece 
was  half  iron,  half-pasteboard,  he  made  his  final  sally  forth 
upon  the  world ; hoping  all  things ; believing  all  things : little 
anticipating  the  checkered  ills  in  store  for  him ; little  thinking 
when  he  penned  his  valedictory  letter  to  his  good  uncle  Conta- 
rine,  that  he  was  never  to  see  him  more ; never  to  return  after 
all  his  wandering  to  the  friend  of  his  infancy ; never  to  revisit 
his  early  and  fondly-remembered  haunts  at  “sweet  Lissoy” 
and  Ballymahon. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  AGREEABLE  FELLOW  - PASSENGERS  — RISKS  FROM  FRIENDS 
PICKED  UP  BY  THE  WAYSIDE — SKETCHES  OF  HOLLAND  AND 
THE  DUTCH— SHIFTS  WHILE  A POOR  STUDENT  AT  LEYDEN— 
THE  TULIP  SPECULATION — THE  PROVIDENT  FLUTE— SOJOURN 
AT  PARIS— SKETCH  OF  VOLTAIRE— TRAVELLING  SHIFTS  OF  A 
PHILOSOPHIC  VAGABOND. 

His  usual  indiscretion  attended  Goldsmith  at  the  yery  outset 
of  his  foreign  enterprise.  He  had  intended  to  take  shipping  at 
Leith  for  Holland ; but  on  arriving  at  that  port  he  found  a ship 
about  to  sail  for  Bordeaux,  with  six  agreeable  passengers, 
whose  acquaintance  he  had  probably  made  at  the  inn,  He  wm 


OLIVER  00 LI) SMITH 


45 


not  a man  to  resist  a sudden  impulse ; so,  instead  of  embarking 
for  Holland,  he  found  himself  ploughing  the  seas  on  his  way  to 
the  other  side  of  the  Continent.  Scarcely  had  the  ship  been 
two  days  at  sea,  Vvdien  she  was  driven  by  stress  of  weather  to 
Newcastle-upon-Tyne.  Here  “of  course”  Goldsmith  and  his 
agreeable  fellow-passengers  found  it  expedient  to  go  on  shore 
and  “refresh  themselves  after  the  fatigues  of  the  voyage.” 
“ Of  course”  they  frolicked  and  made  merry  until  a late  hour 
in  the  evening,  when,  in  the  midst  of  their  hilarity,  the  door 
was  burst  open,  and  a sergeant  and  twelve  grenadiers  entered 
with  fixed  bayonets,  and  took  the  whole  convivial  party  pri- 
soners. 

It  seems  that  the  agreeable  companions  with  whom  our 
greenhorn  had  struck  up  such  a sudden  intimacy  were  Scotch- 
men in  the  French  service,  who  had  been  in  Scotland  enlisting 
recruits  for  the  French  army. 

In  vain  Goldsmith  protested  his  innocence ; he  was  marched 
off  with  his  fellow-revellers  to  prison,  whence  he  with  diffi- 
culty obtained  his  release  at  the  end  of  a fortnight.  With  his 
customary  facility,  however,  at  palliating  his  misadventures, 
he  found  everything  turn  out  for  the  best.  His  imprison- 
ment saved  his  life,  for  during  his  detention  the  ship  proceeded 
on  her  voyage,  but  was  wrecked  at  the  mouth  of  the  Garonne, 
and  all  on  board  perished. 

Goldsmith’s  second  embarkation  was  for  Holland  direct,  and 
in  nine  days  he  arrived  at  Rotterdam,  whence  he  proceeded, 
without  any  more  deviations,  to  Leyden.  He  gives  a whimsical 
picture,  in  one  of  his  letters,  of  the  appearance  of  the  Holland- 
ers. “The  modern  Dutchman  is  quite  a different  creature 
from  him  of  former  times : he  in  everything  imitates  a French- 
man but  in  his  easy,  disengaged  air.  He  is  vastly  ceremonious, 
and  is,  perhaps,  exactly  what  a Frenchman  might  have  been 
in  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.  Such  are  the  better  bred.  But  the 
downright  Hollander  is  one  of  the  oddest  figures  in  nature. 
Upon  a lank  head  of  hair  he  wears  a half-cocked  narrow  hat, 
laced  with  black  riband;  no  coat,  but  seven  waistcoats  and 
nine  pair  of  breeches,  so  that  his  hips  reach  up  almost  to  his 
armpits.  This  well-clothed  vegetable  is  now  fit  to  see  company 
or  make  love.  But  what  a pleasing  creature  is  the  object  of 
his  appetite]  why,  she  wears  a large  fur  cap,  with  a deal  of 
Flanders  lace ; and  for  every  pair  of  breeches  he  carries,  she 
puts  on  two  petticoats. 

“A  Dutch  lady  burns  nothing  about  her  phlegmatic  admirer 


46 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


but  Ills  tobacco.  You  must  know,  sir,  every  woman  canics  in 
her  hand  a stove  of  coals,  which,  when  she  sits,  she  snugs 
under  her  petticoats,  and  at  this  chimney  dozing  Strephon 
lights  his  pipe.” 

In  the  same  letter  he  contrasts  Scotland  and  Holland. 
“There  hills  and  rocks  intercept  every  prospect;  here  it  is 
all  a continued  plain.  There  you  might  see  a well-dressed 
Duchess  issuing  from  a dirty  close,  and  here  a dirty  Dutchman 
inhabiting  a palace.  The  Scotch  may  be  compared  to  a tulip, 
planted  in  dung;  but  I can  never  see  a Dutchman  in  his  own 
house  but  I think  of  a magnificent  Egyptian  temple  dedicated 
to  an  ox.” 

The  country  itself  awakened  his  admiration.  “Nothing,” 
said  he,  ‘ ‘ can  equal  its  beauty ; wherever  I turn  my  eyes,  fine 
houses,  elegant  gardens,  statues,  grottoes,  vistas,  present  them- 
selves ; but  when  you  enter  their  towns  you  are  charmed  be- 
vond  description.  No  misery  is  to  be  seen  here;  every  one  is 
usefully  employed.”  And  again,  in  his  noble  description  in 
“The  Traveller:” 

“ To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 

Imbosom’d  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 

Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 

Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land, 

And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 

Lift  the  tall  rampire's  artificial  pride. 

Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 

The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow; 

Spreads  its  long  arms  amid  the  watery  roar, 

Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore. 

While  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o’er  the  pile, 

Sees  an  amphibious  world  before  him  smile; 

The  slow  canal,  the  yellow  blossom’d  vale, 

The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail, 

The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 

A new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign.” 

He  remained  about  a year  at  Leyden,  attending  the  lectures 
of  G-aubius  on  chemistry  and  Albinus  on  anatomy ; though  his 
studies  are  said  to  have  been  miscellaneous,  and  directed  to 
literature  rather  than  science.  The  thirty-three  pounds  with 
which  he  had  set  out  on  his  travels  were  soon  consumed,  and 
he  was  put  to  many  a shift  to  meet  his  expenses  until  his  pre- 
carious remittances  should  arrive.  He  had  a good  friend  on 
these  occasions  in  a fellow-student  and  countryman,  named 
Ellis,  who  afterward  rose  to  eminence  as  a physician.  He 
used  frequently  to  loan  small  sums  to  Goldsmith,  which  were 
lways  scrupulously  paid.  Ellis  discovered  the  innate  merits 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH . 


47 


of  the  poor  awkward  student,  and  used  to  declare  in  after  life 
that  it  was  a common  remark  in  Leyden,  that  in  all  the  pecu- 
liarities of  Goldsmith,  an  elevation  of  mind  was  to  be  noted;  a 
philosophical  tone  and  manner;  the  feelings  of  a gentleman, 
and  the  language  and  information  of  a scholar.” 

Sometimes,  in  his  emergencies,  Goldsmith  undertook  to 
teach  the  English  language.  It  is  true  he  was  ignorant  of 
the  Dutch,  but  he  had  a smattering  of  the  French,  picked 
up  among  the  Irish  priests  at  Ballymahon.  He  depicts  his 
whimsical  embarrassment  in  this  respect,  in  his  account  in 
the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  of  the  philosophical  vagabond  who 
went  to  Holland  to  teach  the  natives  English,  without  know- 
ing a word  of  their  own  language.  Sometimes,  when  sorely 
pinched,  and  sometimes,  perhaps,  when  flush,  he  resorted  to 
the  gambling  tables,  which  in  those  days  abounded  in  Holland. 
His  good  friend  Ellis  repeatedly  warned  him  against  this  un- 
fortunate propensity,  but  in  vain.  It  brought  its  own  cure,  or 
rather  its  own  punishment,  by  stripping  him  of  every  shilling. 

Ellis  once  more  stepped  in  to  his  relief  with  a true  Irishman’s 
generosity,  but  with  more  considerateness  than  generally  char- 
acterizes an  Irishman,  for  he  only  granted  pecuniary  aid  on 
condition  of  his  quitting  the  sphere  of  danger.  Goldsmith 
gladly  consented  to  leave  Holland,  being  anxious  to  visit  other 
parts.  He  intended  to  proceed  to  Paris  and  pursue  his  studies 
there,  and  was  furnished  by  his  friend  with  money  for  the 
journey.  Unluckily,  he  rambled  into  the  garden  of  a florist 
just  before  quitting  Leyden.  The  tulip  mania  was  still  preva- 
lent in  Holland,  and  some  species  of  that  splendid  flower 
brought  immense  prices.  In  wandering  through  the  garden 
Goldsmith  recollected  that  his  uncle  Gontarine  was  a tulip 
fancier.  The  thought  suddenly  struck  him  that  here  was  an 
opportunity  of  testifying,  in  a delicate  manner,  his  sense  of 
that  generous  uncle’s  past  kindnesses.  In  an  instant  his  hand 
was  in  his  pocket ; a number  of  choice  and  costly  tulip-roots 
were  purchased  and  packed  up  for  Mr.  Contarine ; and  it  was 
not  until  he  had  paid  for  them  that  he  bethought  himself  that 
he  had  spent  all  the  money  borrowed  for  his  travelling  ex- 
penses. Too  proud,  however,  to  give  up  his  journey,  and  too 
shamefaced  to  make  another  appeal  to  his  friend’s  liberality, 
he  determined  to  travel  on  foot,  and  depend  upon  chance  and 
good  luck  for  the  means  of  getting  forward ; and  it  is  said  that 
he  actually  set  off  on  a tour  of  the  Continent,  in  February, 
1755,  with  bat  one  spare  shirt,  a flute,  arid  a single  guinea. 


48 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


“ Blessed,”  says  one  of  his  biographers,  “ with  a good  consti- 
tution, an  adventurous  spirit,  and  with  that  thoughtless,  or, 
perhaps,  happy  disposition  which  takes  no  care  for  to-morrow, 
lie  continued  his  travels  for  a long  time  in  spite  of  innumerable 
privations.”  In  his  amusing  narrative  of  the  adventures  of  a 
“Philosophic  Vagabond”  in  the  “Vicar  of  Wakefield,”  we 
find  shadowed  out  the  expedients  he  pursued.  “I  had  some 
knowledge  of  music,  with  a tolerable  voice;  I now  turned 
what  was  once  my  amusement  into  a present  means  of  sub- 
sistence. I passed  among  the  harmless  peasants  of  Flanders, 
and  among  such  of  the  French  as  were  poor  enough  to  be  very 
merry,  for  I ever  found  them  sprightly  in  proportion  to  their 
wants.  Whenever  I approached  a peasants  house  toward 
nightfall,  I played  one  of  my  merriest  tunes,  and  that  pro- 
cured me  not  only  a lodging,  hut  subsistence  for  the  next  day ; 
but  in  truth  I must  own,  whenever  I attempted  to  entertain 
persons  of  a higher  rank,  they  always  thought  my  perform- 
ance odious,  and  never  made  me  any  return  for  my  endeavors 
to  please  them.” 

At  Paris  he  attended  the  chemical  lectures  of  Rouelle,  then 
in  great  vogue,  where  he  says  he  witnessed  as  bright  a circle 
of  beauty  as  graced  the  court  of  Versailles.  His  love  of 
theatricals,  also,  led  him  to  attend  the  performances  of  the 
celebrated  actress  Mademoiselle  Clairon,  with  which  he  was 
greatly  delighted.  He  seems  to  have  looked  upon  the  state  of 
society  with  the  eye  of  a philosopher,  but  to  have  read  the 
signs  of  the  times  with  the  prophetic  eye  of  a poet.  In  his 
rambles  about  the  environs  of  Paris  he  was  struck  with  the 
immense  quantities  of  game  running  about  almost  in  a tame 
state;  and  saw  in  those  costly  and  rigid  preserves  for  the 
amusement  and  luxury  of  the  privileged  few  a sure  “badge  of 
ythe  slavery  of  the  people.”  This  slavery  he  predicted  was 
drawing  toward  a close.  “When  I consider  that  these  parlia- 
ments, the  members  of  which  are  all  created  by  the  court,  and 
the  presidents  of  which  can  only  act  by  immediate  direction, 
presume  even  to  mention  privileges  and  freedom,  who  till  of 
late  received  directions  from  the  throne  with  implicit  humi- 
lity ; when  this  is  considered,  I cannot  help  fancying  that  the 
genius  of  Freedom  has  entered  that  kingdom  in  disguise.  If 
they  have  but  three  weak  monarchs  more  successively  on  the 
throne,  the  mask  will  be  laid  aside,  and  the  country  will 
certainly  once  more  be  free.”  Events  have  testified  to  the 
sage  forecast  of  the  poet. 


OLIVE Jl  COLT. 


SMITH. 


49 


During  a brief  sojourn  in  Paris  he  appears  to  have  gained 
access  to  valuable  society,  and  to  have  had  the  honor  and 
pleasure  of  making  the  acquaintance  of  Voltaire;  of  whom,  in 
after  years,  he  wrote  a memoir.  “ As  a companion,”  says  he, 
“ no  man  ever  exceeded  him  when  he  pleased  to  lead  the  con- 
versation ; which,  however,  was  not  always  the  case.  In  com- 
pany which  he  either  disliked  or  despised,  few  could  be  more 
reserved  than  he ; but  when  he  was  warmed  in  discourse,  and 
got  over  a hesitating  manner,  which  sometimes  he  was  subject 
to,  it  was  rapture  to  hear  him.  His  meagre  visage  seemed 
insensibly  to  gather  beauty : every  muscle  in  it  had  meaning, 
and  his  eye  beamed  with  unusual  brightness.  The  person  who 
writes  this  memoir,”  continues  he,  ‘‘remembers  to  have  seen 
him  in  a select  company  of  wits  of  both  sexes  at  Paris,  when 
the  subject  happened  to  turn  upon  English  taste  and  learning. 
Fontenelle  (then  nearly  a hundred  years  old),  who  was  of  the 
party,  and  who  being  unacquainted  with  the  language  or  au- 
thors of  the  country  he  undertook  to  condemn,  with  a spirit 
truly  vulgar  began  to  revile  both.  Diderot,  who  liked  the 
English,  and  knew  something  of  their  literary  pretensions, 
attempted  to  vindicate  their  poetry  and  learning,  but  with 
unequal  abilities.  The  company  quickly  perceived  that  Fonte- 
nelle was  superior  in  the  dispute,  and  were  surprised  at  the 
silence  which  Voltaire  had  preserved  all  the  former  part  of  the 
night,  particularly  as  the  conversation  happened  to  turn  upon 
one  of  his  favorite  topics.  Fontenelle  continued  his  triumph 
until  about  twelve  o’clock,  when  Voltaire  appeared  at  last 
roused  from  his  reverie.  His  whole  frame  seemed  animated. 
He  began  his  defence  with  the  utmost  defiance  mixed  with 
spirit,  and  now  and  then  let  fall  the  finest  strokes  of  raillery 
upon  his  antagonist ; and  his  harangue  lasted  till  three  in  the 
morning.  I must  confess  that,  whether  from  national  par- 
tiality or  from  the  elegant  sensibility  of  his  maimer,  I never 
was  so  charmed,  nor  did  I ever  remember  so  absolute  a victory 
as  he  gained  in  this  dispute.”  Goldsmith’s  ramblings  took  him 
into  Germany  and  Switzerland,  from  which  last  mentioned 
country  he  sent  to  his  brother  in  Ireland  the  first  brief  sketch, 
afterward  amplified  into  his  poem  of  the  “Traveller.” 

At  Geneva  he  became  travelling  tutor  to  a mongrel  young 
gentleman,  son  of  a London  pawnbroker,  who  had  been  sud- 
denly elevated  into  fortune  and  absurdity  by  the  death  of  an 
uncle.  The  youth,  before  setting  up  for  a gentleman,  had  been 
an  attorney’s  apprentice,  and  was  an  arrant  pettifogger  in 


OLIVER  O OLD  SMITH. 


money  matters.  Never  were  two  beings  more  illy  assorted 
than  he  and  Goldsmith.  We  may  form  an  idea  of  the  tutor 
and  the  pupil  from  the  following  extract  from  the  narrative  of 
the  “ Philosophic  Vagabond.  ” 

‘ ‘ I was  to  he  the  young  gentleman’s  governor,  but  with  a 
proviso  that  he  should  always  be  permitted  to  govern  himself. 
My  pupil,  in  fact,  understood  the  art  of  guiding  in  money  con- 
cerns much  better  than  I.  He  was  heir  to  a fortune  of  about 
two  hundred  thousand  pounds,  left  him  by  an  uncle  in  the  West 
Indies;  and  his  guardians,  to  qualify  him  for  the  management  of 
it  had  bound  him  apprentice  to  an  attorney.  Thus  avarice  was 
his  prevailing  passion ; all  his  questions  on  the  road  were  how 
money  might  be  saved — which  was  the  least  expensive  course 
of  travel— whether  anything  could  be  bought  that  would  turn 
to  account  when  disposed  of  again  in  London.  Such  curiosities 
on  the  way  as  could  be  seen  for  nothing  he  was  ready  enough 
to  look  at;  but  if  the  sight  of  them  was  to  be  paid  for,  he 
usually  asserted  that  he  had  been  told  that  they  were  not 
worth  seeing.  He  never  paid  a bill  that  he  would  not  observe 
how  amazingly  expensive  travelling  was ; and  all  this  though 
not  yet  twenty -one.” 

In  this  sketch  Goldsmith  undoubtedly  shadows  forth  his  an- 
noyances as  travelling  tutor  to  this  concrete  young  gentleman, 
compounded  of  the  pawnbroker,  the  pettifogger,  and  the  West 
Indian  heir,  with  an  overlaying  of  the  city  miser.  They  had 
continual  difficulties  on  all  points  of  expense  until  they  reached 
Marseilles,  where  both  were  glad  to  separate. 

Once  more  on  foot,  but  freed  from  the  irksome  duties  of 
“bear  leader,”  and  with  some  of  his  pay,  as  tutor,  in  his 
pocket,  Goldsmith  continued  his  half-vagrant  peregrinations 
through  part  of  France  and  Piedmont,  and  some  of  the  Italian 
States.  He  had  acquired,  as  has  been  shown,  a habit  of  shift- 
ing along  and  living  by  expedients,  and  a new  one  presented 
itself  in  Italy.  “ My  skill  in  music,”  says  he,  in  the  Philosophic 
Vagabond,  “ could  avail  me  nothing  in  a country  where  every 
peasant  was  a better  musician  than  I ; but  by  this  time  I had 
acquired  another  talent,  which  answered  my  purpose  as  well, 
and  this  was  a skill  in  disputation.  In  all  the  foreign  univer- 
sities and  convents  there  are,  upon  certain  days,  philosophical 
theses  maintained  against  every  adventitious  disputant;  for 
which,  if  the  champion  opposes  with  any  dexterity,  he  can 
claim  a gratuity  in  money,  a dinner,  and  a bed  for  one  night.” 
Though  a poor  wandering  scholar,  his  reception  in  these 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


51 


learned  piles  was  as  free  from  humiliation  as  in  the  cottages  of 
the  peasantry.  “ With  the  members  of  these  establishments,” 
said  he,  ‘ ‘ I could  converse  on  topics  of  literature,  and  then  I 
alivays  forgot  the  meanness  of  my  circumstances.  ” 

At  Padua,  where  he  remained  some  months,  he  is  said  to 
have  taken  his  medical  degree.  It  is  probable  he  was  brought 
to  a pause  in  this  city  by  the  death  of  his  uncle  Contarine,  who 
had  hitherto  assisted  him  in  his  wanderings  by  occasional, 
though,  of  course,  slender  remittances.  Deprived  of  this  source 
of  supplies,  he  wrote  to  his  friends  in  Ireland,  and  especially  to 
his  brother-in-law,  Hod  son,  describing  his  destitute  situation. 
His  letters  brought  him  neither  money  nor  reply.  It  appears 
from  subsequent  correspondence  that  his  brother-in-law  actu- 
ally exerted  himself  to  raise  a subscription  for  his  assistance 
among  his  relatives,  friends,  and  acquaintance,  but  without 
success.  Their  faith  and  hope  in  him  were  most  probably  at 
an  end ; as  yet  he  had  disappointed  them  at  every  point,  he 
had  given  none  of  the  anticipated  proofs  of  talent,  and  they 
were  too  poor  to  support  what  they  may  have  considered  the 
wandering  propensities  of  a heedless  spendthrift. 

Thus  left  to  his  own  precarious  resources,  Goldsmith  gave 
up  all  further  wandering  in  Italy,  without  visiting  the  south, 
though  Eome  and  Naples  must  have  held  out  powerful  attrac- 
tions to  one  of  his  poetical  cast.  Once  more  resuming  his  pil- 
grim staff,  he  turned  his  face  toward  England,  “ walking  along 
from  city  to  city,  examining  mankind  more  nearly,  and  seeing 
both  sides  of  the  picture.”  In  traversing  France  his  flute— 
his  magic  flute ! — was  once  more  in  requisition,  as  we  may  con- 
clude, by  the  following  passage  in  his  Traveller : 

“ Gay,  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 

Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can  please. 

How  often  have  I led  thy  sportive  choir 
With  tuneless  pipe  beside  the  murmuring  Loire! 

Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 

And  freshened  from  the  wave  the  zephyr  flew; 

And  haply  though  my  harsh  note  falt’ring  still, 

But  mocked  all  tune,  and  marr’d  the  dancer’s  skill ; 

Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power, 

And  dance  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 

Alike  all  ages:  Dames  of  ancient  days 

Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze, 

And  the  gay  gran dsire,  skill’d  in  gestic  lore, 

Has  frisk’d  beneath  the  burden  of  three-score.” 


02 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

LANDING  IN  ENGLAND — SHIFTS  OF  A MAN  WITHOUT  MONEY— THE 
PESTLE  AND  MORTAR— THEATRICALS  IN  A BARN— LAUNCH  UPON 
LONDON— A CITY  NIGHT  SCENE— STRUGGLES  WITH  PENURY- 
MISERIES  OF  A TUTOR — A DOCTOR  IN  THE  SUBURB— POOR  PRAC- 
TICE AND  SECOND-HAND  FINER Y — A TRAGEDY  IN  EMBRYO— PRO- 
JECT OF  TIIE  WRITTEN  MOUNTAINS. 

After  two  years  spent  in  roving  about  the  Continent,  “ pur 
suing  novelty,”  as  he  said,  “and  losing  content,”  Goldsmith 
landed  at  Dover  early  in  175G.  He  appears  to  have  had  no 
definite  plan  of  action.  The  death  of  his  uncle  Contarine,  and 
the  neglect  of  his  relatives  and  friends  to  reply  to  his  letters, 
seem  to  have  produced  in  him  a temporary  feeling  of  loneli- 
ness and  destitution,  and  his  only  thought  was  to  get  to  Lon- 
don and  throw  himself  upon  the  world.  But  how  was  he  to 
get  there?  His  purse  was  empty.  England  was  to  him  as 
completely  a foreign  land  as  any  part  of  the  Continent,  and 
where  on  earth  is  a penniless  stranger  more  destitute?  His 
flute  and  his  philosophy  were  no  longer  of  any  avail ; the  Eng- 
lish boors  cared  nothing  for  music ; there  were  no  convents ; 
and  as  to  the  learned  and  the  clergy,  not  one  of  them  would 
give  a vagrant  scholar  a supper  and  night’s  lodging  for  the  best 
thesis  that  ever  was  argued.  “You  may  easily  imagine,” 
says  he,  in  a subsequent  letter  to  his  brother-in-law,  4 ‘ what 
difficulties  I had  to  encounter,  left  as  I was  without  friends, 
recommendations,  money,  or  impudence,  and  that  in  a country 
where  being  born  an  Irishman  was  sufficient  to  keep  me  urn 
employed.  Many,  in  such  circumstances,  would  have  had 
recourse  to  the  friar’s  cord  or  the  suicide’s  halter.  But,  with 
all  my  follies,  I had  principle  to  resist  the  one,  and  resolution 
to  combat  the  other.” 

He  applied  at  one  place,  we  are  told,  for  employment  in  the 
shop  of  a,  country  apothecary;  but  all  his  medical  science 
gathered  in  foreign  universities  could  not  gain  him  the  man- 
agement of  a pestle  and  mortar.  He  even  resorted,  it  is  said, 
to  the  stage  as  a temporary  expedient,  and  figured  in  low  com- 
edy at  a country  town  in  Kent.  This  accords  with  his  last 
shift  of  the  Philosophic  Vagabond,  and  with  the  knowledge  of 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


63 


country  theatricals  displayed  in  his  1 1 Adventures  of  a Stroll- 
ing Player,”  or  may  be  a story  suggested  by  them.  All  this 
part  of  his  career,  however,  in  which  he  must  have  trod  the 
lowest  paths  of  humility,  are  only  to  be  conjectured  from 
vague  traditions,  or  scraps  of  autobiography  gleaned  from  his 
miscellaneous  writings. 

At  length  we  find  him  launched  on  the  great  metropolis,  or 
- rather  drifting  about  its  streets,  at  night,  in  the  gloomy  month 
of  February,  with  but  a few  half-pence  in  his  pocket.  The 
deserts  of  Arabia  are  not  more  dreary  and  inhospitable  than 
the  streets  of  London  at  such  a time,  and  to  a stranger  in  such 
a plight.  Do  we  want  a picture  as  an  illustration?  We  have 
it  in  his  own  words,  and  furnished,  doubtless,  from  his  own 
experience. 

“The  clock  has  just  struck  two;  what  a gloom  hangs  all 
around ! no  sound  is  heard  but  of  the  chiming  clock,  or  the 
distant  watch-dog.  How  few  appear  in  those  streets,  which 
but  some  few  hours  ago  were  crowded ! But  who  are  those 
who  make  the  streets  their  couch,  and  find  a short  repose 
from  wretchedness  at  the  doors  of  the  opulent?  They  are 
strangers,  wanderers,  and  orphans,  whose  circumstances  are 
too  humble  to  expect  redress,  and  whose  distresses  are  too 
great  even  for  pity.  Some  are  without  the  covering  even  of 
rags,  and  others  emaciated  with  disease;  the  world  has  dis- 
claimed them ; society  turns  its  back  upon  their  distress,  and 
has  given  them  up  to  nakedness  and  hunger.  These  poor  shiv- 
ering femades  have  once  seen  happier  days , and  been  flattered 
into  beauty.  They  are  now  turned  out  to  meet  the  severity  of 
winter.  Perhaps  now,  lying  at  the  doors  of  their  betrayers, 
they  sue  to  wretches  whose  hearts  are  insensible,  or  debau- 
chees who  may  curse,  but  will  not  relieve  them. 

‘ ‘ Why,  why  was  I born  a man,  and  yet  see  the  sufferings  of 
wretches  I cannot  relieve!  Poor  houseless  creatures!  The 
world  will  give  you  reproaches,  but  will  not  give  you  relief.” 

Poor  houseless  Goldsmith ! we  may  here  ejaculate — to  what 
shifts  he  must  have  been  driven  to  find  shelter  and  sustenance 
for  himself  in  this  his  first  venture  into  London ! Many  years 
afterward,  in  the  days  of  his  social  elevation,  he  startled  a 
polite  circle  at  Sir  Joshua  Peynolds’s  by  humorously  dating  an 
anecdote  about  the  time  he  “lived  among  the  beggars  of  Axe 
Lane.  ” Such  may  have  been  the  desolate  quarters  with  which 
he  was  fain  to  content  himself  when  thus  adrift  upon  the  town, 
with  but  a few  half-pence  in  his  pocket. 


64 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


The  first  authentic  trace  we  have  of  him  in  this  new  part  of 
his  career,  is  filling  the  situation  of  an  usher  to  a school,  and 
even  this  employ  he  obtained  with  some  difliculty,  after  a ref- 
erence for  a character  to  his  friends  in  the  University  of  Dub- 
lin. In  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  he  makes  George  Primrose 
undergo  a whimsical  catechism  concerning  the  requisites  for  an 
usher.  uIIave  you  been  bred  apprentice  to  the  business  ?” 
“No.”  “ Then  you  won’t  do  for  a school.  Can  you  dress  the 

boys’ hair?”  “No.”  “ Then  you  won’t  do  for  a school.  Can 

you  lie  three  in  a bed?”  “No.”  “Then  you  will  never  do  for 
a school.  Have  you  a good  stomach?”  “Yes.”  “Then  you 
will  by  no  means  do  for  a school.  I have  been  an  usher  in  a 
boarding-school  myself,  and  may  I die  of  an  anodyne  necklace, 
but  I had  rather  be  under-turnkey  at  Newgate.  I was  up 
early  and  late ; I was  browbeat  by  the  master,  hated  for  my 
ugly  face  by  the  mistress,  worried  by  the  boys.” 

Goldsmith  remained  but  a short  time  in  this  situation,  and 
to  the  mortifications  experienced  there,  we  doubtless  owe  the 
picturings  given  in  his  writings  of  the  hardships  of  an  usher’s 
life.  “He  is  generally,”  says  he,  “the  laughing-stock  of  the 
school.  Every  trick  is  played  upon  him;  the  oddity  of  his 
manner,  his  dress,  or  his  language,  is  a fund  of  eternal  ridi- 
cule; the  master  himself  now  and  then  cannot  avoid  joining  in 
the  laugh;  and  the  poor  wretch,  eternally  resenting  this  ill 
usage,  lives  in  a state  of  war  with  all  the  family.” — “He  is 
obliged,  perhaps,  to  sleep  in  the  same  bed  with  the  French 
teacher,  who  disturbs  him  for  an  hour  every  night  in  papering 
and  filleting  his  hair,  and  stinks  worse  than  a carrion  with  his 
rancid  pomatums,  when  he  lays  his  head  beside  him  on  the 
bolster.” 

His  next  shift  was  as  assistant  in  the  laboratory  of  a chemist 
near  Fish  Street  Hill.  After  remaining  here  a few  months,  he 
heard  that  Dr.  Sleigh,  who  had  been  his  friend  and  fellow- 
student  at  Edinburgh,  was  in  London.  Eager  to  meet  with  a 
friendly  face  in  this  land  of  strangers,  he  immediately  called 
on  him ; ‘ ‘ but  though  it  was  Sunday,  and  it  is  to  be  supposed  I 
was  in  my  best  clothes,  Sleigh  scarcely  knew  me— such  is  the 
tax  the  unfortunate  pay  to  poverty.  However,  when  he  did 
recollect  me,  I found  his  heart  as  warm  as  ever,  and  he  shared 
his  purse  and  friendship  with  me  during  his  continuance  in 
London.  ” 

Through  the  advice  and  assistance  of  Dr.  Sleigh,  he  now 
commenced  the  practice  of  medicine,  but  in  a small  way,  in 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Bankside,  Southwark,  and  chiefly  among  the  poor;  for  he 
wanted  the  figure,  address,  polish,  and  management,  to  succeed 
among  the  rich.  His  old  schoolmate  and  college  companion, 
Beatty,  who  used  to  aid  him  with  his  purse  at  the  university, 
met  him  about  this  time,  decked  out  in  the  tarnished  finery  of 
a second-hand  suit  of  green  and  gold,  with  a shirt  and  neck- 
cloth of  a fortnight’s  wear. 

Poor  Goldsmith  endeavored  to  assume  a prosperous  air  in 
the  eyes  of  his  early  associate.  “He  was  practising  physic,” 
he  said,  “and  doing  very  welDM  At  this  moment  poverty  wasV 
pinching  him  to  the  bone  in  spite  of  his  practice  and  his  dirty 
finery.  His  fees  were  necessarily  small,  and  ill  paid,  and  he 
was  fain  to  seek  some  precarious  assistance  from  his  pen. 
Here  his  quondam  fellow-student,  Dr.  Sleigh,  was  again  of 
service,  introducing  him  to  some  of  the  booksellers,  who  gave 
him  occasional,  though  starveling,  employment.  According  to 
tradition,  however,  his  most  efficient  patron  just  now  was  a 
journeyman  printer,  one  of  his  poor  patients  of  Bankside,  who 
had  formed  a good  opinion  of  his  talents,  and  perceived  his 
poverty  and  his  literary  shifts.  The  printer  was  in  the  employ 
of  Mr.  Samuel  Richardson,  the  author  of  Pamela,  Clarissa,  and 
Sir  Charles  Grandison;  who  combined  the  novelist  and  the 
publisher,  and  was  in  flourishing  circumstances.  Through  the 
journeyman’s  intervention  Goldsmith  is  said  to  have  become 
acquainted  with  Richardson,  who  employed  him  as  reader  and 
corrector  of  the  press,  at  his  printing  establishment  in  Salis- 
bury Court ; an  occupation  which  he  alternated  with  his  medi- 
cal duties. 

Being  admitted  occasionally  to  Richardson’s  parlor,  he  began 
to  form  literary  acquaintances,  among  whom  the  most  impor- 
tant was  Dr.  Young,  the  author  of  Night  Thou ghts,  a poem  in 
the  height  of  fashion.  It  is  not  probable,  however,  that  much 
familiarity  took  place  at  the  time  between  the  literary  lion  of 
the  day  and  t'he  poor  iEsculapius  of  Bankside,  the  humble  cor- 
rector of  the  press.  Still  the  communion  with  literary  men 
had  its  effect  to  set  his  imagination  teeming.  Dr.  Farr,  one  of 
his  Edinburgh  fellow-students,  who  was  at  London  about  this 
time,  attending  the  hospitals  and  lectures,  gives  us  an  amusing 
account  of  Goldsmith  in  his  literary  character. 

“Early  in  January  he  called  upon  me  one  morning  before  I 
was  up,  and,  on  my  entering  the  room,  I recognized  my  old 
acquaintance,  dressed  in  a rusty,  full-trimmed  black  suit,  with 
his  pockets  full  of  papers,  which  instantly  reminded  me  of  the 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


66 

poet  in  Garrick’s  farce  of  Lethe.  After  we  had  finished  our 
breakfast  he  drew  from  his  pocket  part  of  a tragedy,  which  ho 
said  had  been  brought  for  my  correction.  In  vain  I pleaded 
inability,  when  he  began  to  read ; and  every  part  on  which  I 
expressed  a doubt  as  to  the  propriety  was  immediately  blotted 
out.  I then  most  earnestly  pressed  him  not  to  trust  to  my 
judgment,  but  to  take  the  opinion  of  persons  better  qualified 
to  decide  on  dramatic  compositions.  He  now  told  me  lie  had 
submitted  his  productions,  so  far  as  he  had  written,  to  Mr. 
Richardson,  the  author  of  Clarissa,  on  which  I peremptorily 
declined  offering  another  criticism  on  the  performance.” 

From  the  graphic  description  given  of  him  by  Dr.  Farr,  it 
will  be  perceived  that  the  tarnished  finery  of  green  and  gold 
had  been  succeeded  by  a professional  suit  of  black,  to  which, 
we  are  told,  were  added  the  wig  and  cane  indispensable  to 
medical  doctors  in  those  days.  The  coat  was  a second  hand 
one,  of  rusty  velvet,  with  a patch  on  the  left  breast,  which  he 
adroitly  covered  with  his  three-cornered  hat  during  his  medical 
visits;  and  we  have  an  amusing  anecdote  of  his  contest  of 
courtesy  with  a patient  who  persisted  in  endeavoring  to  relieve 
him  from  the  hat,  which  only  made  him  press  it  more  devoutly 
to  his  heart. 

Nothing  further  has  ever  been  heard  of  the  tragedy  men- 
tioned by  Dr.  Farr;  it  was  probably  never  completed.  The 
same  gentleman  speaks  of  a strange  Quixotic  scheme  which 
Goldsmith  had  in  contemplation  at  the  time,  “of  going  to 
decipher  the  inscriptions  on  the  written  mountains,  though  he 
was  altogether  ignorant  of  Arabic,  or  the  language  in  which 
they  might  be  supposed  to  be  written.  “The  salary  of  three 
hundred  pounds,”  adds  Dr.  Farr,  “ which  had  been  left  for  the 
purpose,  was  the  temptation.”  This  was  probably  one  of 
many  dreamy  projects  with  which  his  fervid  brain  was  apt  to 
teem.  On  such  subjects  he  was  prone  to  talk  vaguely  and 
magnificently,  but  inconsiderately,  from  a kindled  imagination 
rather  than  a well-instructed  judgment.  He  had  always  a 
great  notion  of  expeditions  to  the  East,  and  wonders  to  be  seen 
and  effected  in  the  oriental  countries. 


OLIVER  GOLD  SMITH. 


57 


CHAPTER  VII. 

LIFE  OF  A PEDAGOGUE — KINDNESS  TO  SCHOOLBOYS — PERTNESS  IN 
RETURN  — EXPENSIVE  CHARITIES  — THE  GRIFFITHS  AND  THE 
u MONTHLY  REVIEW” — TOILS  OF  A LITERARY  HACK — RUPTURE 
WITH  THE  GRIFFITHS. 

Among  the  most  cordial  of  Goldsmith’s  intimates  in  London 
during  this  time  of  precarious  struggle  were  certain  of  his 
former  fellow-students  in  Edinburgh.  One  of  these  was  the 
son  of  a Doctor  Milner,  a dissenting  minister,  who  kept  a 
classical  school  of  eminence  at  Peckham,  in  Surrey.  Young 
Milner  had  a favorable  opinion  of  Goldsmith’s  abilities  and 
attainments,  and  cherished  for  him  that  good  will  which  his 
genial  nature  seems  ever  to  have  inspired  among  his  school 
and  college  associates.  His  father  falling  ill,  the  young  man 
negotiated  with  Goldsmith  to  take  temporary  charge  of  the 
school.  The  latter  readily  consented ; for  he  was  discouraged 
by  the  slow  growth  of  medical  reputation  and  practice,  and  as 
yet  had  no  confidence  in  the  coy  smiles  of  the  muse.  Laying 
by  his  wig  and  cane,  therefore,  and  once  more  wielding  the 
ferule,  he  resumed  the  character  of  the  pedagogue,  and  for 
some  time  reigned  as  vicegerent  over  the  academy  at  Peckham. 
He  appears  to  have  been  well  treated  by  both  Dr.  Milner  and 
his  wife,  and  became  a favorite  with  the  scholars  from  his 
easy,  indulgent  good  nature.  He  mingled  in  their  sports,  told 
them  droll  stories,  played  on  the  flute  for  their  amusement, 
and  spent  his  money  in  treating  them  to  sweetmeats  and  other 
schoolboy  dainties.  His  familiarity  was  sometimes  carried  too 
far;  he  indulged  in  boyish  pranks  and  practical  jokes,  and 
drew  upon  himself  retorts  in  kind,  which,  however,  he  bore 
with  great  good  humor.  Once,  indeed,  he  was  touched  to  the 
quick  by  a piece  of  schoolboy  pertness.  After  playing  on  the 
flute,  he  spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  music,  as  delightful  in  itself, 
and  as  a valuable  accomplishment  for  a gentleman,  whereupon 
a youngster,  with  a glance  at  his  ungainly  person,  wished  to 
know  if  he  considered  himself  a gentleman.  Poor  Goldsmith, 
feelingly  alive  to  the  awkwardness  of  his  appearance  and  the 
humility  of  his  situation,  winced  at  this  unthinking  sneer, 
which  long  rankled  in  his  mind. 


68 


OLIVER  GOLD  SMI  TIT. 


As  usual,  while  in  Dr.  Milner’s  employ,  his  benevolent  feel- 
ings were  a heavy  tax  upon  his  purse,  for  he  never  could 
resist  a tale  of  distress,  and  was  apt  to  be  fleeced  by  every 
sturdy  beggar;  so  that,  between  his  charity  and  his  munifi 
cence,  he  was  generally  in  advance  of  his  slender  salary. 
‘‘You  had  better,  Mr.  Goldsmith,  let  me  take  care  of  your 
money,”  said  Mrs.  Milner  one  day,  “as  I do  for  some  of  the 
young  gentlemen.” — “In  truth,  madam,  there  is  equal  need!” 
was  the  good-humored  reply. 

Dr.  Milner  was  a man  of  some  literary  pretensions,  and  wrote 
occasionally  for  the  Monthly  Review,  of  which  a bookseller,  by 
the  name  of  Griffiths,  was  proprietor.  This  work  was  an 
advocate  for  Whig  principles,  and  had  been  in  prosperous 
existence  for  nearly  eight  years.  Of  late,  however,  periodicals 
had  multiplied  exceedingly,  and  a formidable  Tory  rival  had 
started  up  in  the  Critical  Review , published  by  Archibald  Ham- 
ilton, a bookseller,  and  aided  by  the  powerful  and  popular  pen 
of  Dr.  Smollett.  Griffiths  was  obliged  to  recruit  his  forces. 
While  so  doing  he  met  Goldsmith,  a humble  occupant  of  a seat 
at  Dr.  Milner’s  table,  and  was  struck  with  remarks  on  men  and 
books,  which  fell  from  him  in  the  course  of  conversation.  He 
took  occasion  to  sound  him  privately  as  to  his  inclination  and 
capacity  as  a reviewer,  and  was  furnished  by  him  with  speci- 
mens of  his  literary  and  critical  talents.  They  proved  satis- 
factory. The  consequence  was  that  Goldsmith  once  more 
changed  his  mode  of  life,  and  in  April,  1757,  became  a contribu- 
tor to  the  Monthly  Revieiv,  at  a small  fixed  salary,  with  board 
and  lodging,  and  accordingly  took  up  his  abode  with  Mr. 
Griffiths,  at  the  sign  of  the  Dunciad,  Paternoster  Row.  As 
usual  we  trace  this  phase  of  his  fortunes  in  his  semi-fictitious 
writings ; his  sudden  transmutation  of  the  pedagogue  into  the 
author  being  humorously  set  forth  in  the  case  of  ‘ ‘ George  Prim- 
rose,” in  the  “Vicar  of  Wakefield.”  “Come,”  says  George’s 
adviser,  “I  see  you  are  a lad  of  spirit  and  some  learning; 
what  do  you  think  of  commencing  author  like  me?  You  ha  ve 
read  in  books,  no  doubt,  of  men  of  genius  starving  at  the 
trade;  at  present  I’ll  show  you  forty  very  dull  fellows  about 
town  that  live  by  it  in  opulence.  All  honest,  jog-trot  men, 
who  go  on  smoothly  and  dully,  and  write  history  and  politics, 
and  are  praised : men,  sir,  who,  had  they  been  bred  cobblers, 
would  all  their  lives  only  have  mended  shoes,  but  never  made 
them.”  “ Finding”  (says  George!  “that  there  was  no  great  de- 
gree of  gentility  affixed  to  the  character  of  an  usher,  I resolved 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH . 


50 


to  accept  his  proposal;  and  having  the  highest  respect  for 
Hterature,  hailed  the  antiqua  mater  of  Grub  Street  with  rev- 
erence. I thought  it  my  glory  to  pursue  a track  which 
Dryden  and  Otway  trod  before  me.”  Alas,  Dryden  struggled 
with  indigence  all  his  days ; and  Otway,  it  is  said,  fell  a vic- 
tim to  famine  in  his  thirty-fifth  year,  being  strangled  by  a roll 
of  bread,  which  he  devoured  with  the  voracity  of  a starving 
man. 

In  Goldsmith’s  experience  the  track  soon  proved  a thorny 
one.  Griffiths  was  a hard  business  man,  of  shrewd,  worldly 
good  sense,  but  little  refinement  or  cultivation.  He  meddled, 
or  rather  muddled  with  literature,  too,  in  a business  way, 
altering  and  modifying  occasionally  the  writings  of  his  con- 
tributors, and  in  this  he  was  aided  by  his  wife,  who,  according 
to  Smollett,  was  ‘ ‘ an  antiquated  female  critic  and  a dabbler  in 
the  Review .”  Such  was  the  literary  vassalage  to  which  Gold- 
smith had  unwarily  subjected  himself.  A diurnal  drudgery 
was  imposed  on  him,  irksome  to  his  indolent  habits,  and  at- 
tended by  circumstances  humiliating  to  his  pride.  He  had  to 
write  daily  from  nine  o’clock  until  two,  and  often  throughout 
the  day;  whether  in  the  vein  or  not,  and  on  subjects  dictated 
by  his  taskmaster,  however  foreign  to  his  taste ; in  a word,  he 
was  treated  as  a mere  literary  hack.  But  this  was  not  the 
worst ; it  was  the  critical  supervision  of  Griffiths  and  his  wife 
which  grieved  him:  the  “illiterate,  bookselling  Griffiths,”  as 
Smollett  called  them,  “who  presumed  to  revise,  alter,  and 
amend  the  articles  contributed  to  their  Review.  Thank 
heaven,”  crowed  Smollet,  “the  Critical  Review  is  not  written 
under  the  restraint  of  a bookseller  and  his  wife.  Its  principal 
writers  are  independent  of  each  other,  unconnected  with  book- 
sellers, and  unawed  by  old  women !” 

This  literary  vassalage,  however,  did  not  last  long.  The 
bookseller  became  more  and  more  exacting.  He  accused  his 
hack  writer  of  idleness;  of  abandoning  his  writing-desk  and 
literary  workshop  at  an  early  hour  of  the  day;  and  of  assum- 
ing a tone  and  manner  above  his  situation.  Goldsmith,  in 
return,  charged  him  with  impertinence ; his  wife  with  mean- 
ness and  parsimony  in  her  household  treatment  of  him,  and 
both  of  literary  meddling  and  marring.  The  engagement  was 
broken  off  at  the  end  of  five  months,  by  mutual  consent,  and 
without  any  violent  rupture,  as  it  will  be  found  they  afterward 
had  occasional  dealings  with  each  other. 

Though  Goldsmith  was  now  nearly  thirty  years  of  age,  ha 


60 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


had  produced  nothing  to  give  him  a decided  reputation.  lie 
was  as  yet  a mere  writer  for  bread.  The  articles  he  had  con- 
tributed to  the  Review  were  anonymous,  and  were  never 
avowed  by  him.  They  have  since  been,  for  the  most  part, 
ascertained ; and  though  thrown  off  hastily,  often  treating  on 
subjects  of  temporary  interest,  and  marred  by  the  Griffith  in- 
terpolations, they  are  still  characterized  by  his  sound,  easy 
good  sense,  and  the  genial  graces  of  his  style.  Johnson  ob- 
served that  Goldsmith’s  genius  flowered  late ; he  should  have 
said  it  flowered  early,  but  was  late  in  bringing  its  fruit  to 
maturity. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

NEWBERY,  OF  PICTURE-BOOK  MEMORY — HOW  TO  KEEP  UP  AP- 
PEARANCES—MISERIES  OF  AUTHORSHIP— A POOR  RELATION — 
LETTER  TO  HODSON. 

Being  now  known  in  the  publishing  world,  Goldsmith  began 
to  find  casual  employment  in  various  quarters ; among  others 
he  wrote  occasionally  for  the  Literary  Magazine , a production 
set  on  foot  by  Mr.  John  Newbery,  bookseller,  St.  Paul’s 
Churchyard,  renowned  in  nursery  literature  throughout  the 
latter  half  of  the  last  century  for  his  picture-books  for  children. 
Newbery  was  a worthy,  intelligent,  kind-hearted  man,  and  a 
seasonable  though  cautious  friend  to  authors,  relieving  them 
with  small  loans  when  in  pecuniary  difficulties,  though  always 
taking  care  to  be  well  repaid  by  the  labor  of  their  pens.  Gold- 
smith introduces  him  in  a humorous  yet  friendly  manner  in 
his  novel  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  “This  person  was  no 
other  than  the  philanthropic  bookseller  in  St.  Paul’s  Church- 
yard, who  has  written  so  many  little  books  for  children ; he 
called  himself  their  friend ; but  he  was  the  friend  of  all  man- 
kind. He  was  no  sooner  alighted  but  he  was  in  haste  to  be 
gone ; for  he  was  ever  on  business  of  importance,  and  was  at 
that  time  actually  compiling  materials  for  the  history  of  one 
Mr.  Thomas  Trip.  I immediately  recollected  this  good-natured 
man’s  red-pimpled  face.  ” 

Besides  his  literary  job  work,  Goldsmith  also  resumed  his 
medical  practice,  but  with  very  trifling  success.  The  scanti- 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


61 


ness  of  his  purse  still  obliged  him  to  live  in  obscure  lodgings 
somewhere  in  the  vicinity  of  Salisbury  Square,  Fleet  Street ; 
but  his  extended  acquaintance  and  rising  importance  caused 
him  to  consult  appearances.  He  adopted  an  expedient,  then 
very  common,  and  still  practised  in  London  among  those  who 
have  to  tread  the  narrow  path  between  pride  and  poverty; 
while  he  burrowed  in  lodgings  suited  to  his  means,  he  “hailed,” 
as  it  is  termed,  from  the  Temple  Exchange  Coffee-house  near 
Temple  Bar.  Here  he  received  his  medical  calls;  hence  he 
dated  his  letters,  and  here  he  passed  much  of  his  leisure  hours, 
conversing  with  the  frequenters  of  the  place.  1 4 Thirty  pounds 
a year,”  said  a poor  Irish  painter,  who  understood  the  art  of 
shifting,  “ is  enough  to  enable  a man  to  live  in  London  with- 
out being  contemptible.  Ten  pounds  will  find  him  in  clothes 
and  linen ; he  can  live  in  a garret  on  eighteen  pence  a week ; 
hail  from  a coffee-house,  where,  by  occasionally  spending 
threepence,  he  may  pass  some  hours  each  day  m good  com- 
pany ; he  may  breakfast  on  bread  and  milk  for  a penny ; dine 
for  sixpence;  do  without  supper;  and  on  clean-shirt-day  he 
may  go  abroad  and  pay  visits.” 

Goldsmith  seems  to  have  taken  a leaf  from  this  poor  devil’s 
manual  in  respect  to  the  coffee-house  at  least.  Indeed,  coffee- 
houses in  those  days  were  the  resorts  of  wits  and  literati,  where 
the  topics  of  the  day  were  gossiped  over,  and  the  affairs  of 
literature  and  the  drama  discussed  and  criticised.  In  this  way 
he  enlarged  the  circle  of  his  intimacy,  which  now  embraced 
several  names  of  notoriety. 

Do  we  want  a picture  of  Goldsmith’s  experience  in  this  part 
of  his  career?  we  have  it  in  his  observations  on  the  life  of  an 
author  in  the  “ Inquiry  into  the  state  of  polite  learning ,”  pub- 
lished some  years  afterward. 

‘ 1 The  author,  unpatronized  by  the  great,  has  naturally  re- 
course to  the  bookseller.  There  cannot,  perhaps,  be  imagined 
5 a combination  more  prejudicial  to  taste  than  this.  It  is  the  in- 
terest of  the  one  to  allow  as  little  for  writing,  and  for  the  other 
to  write  as  much  as  possible ; accordingly  tedious  compilations 
and  periodical  magazines  are  the  result  of  their  joint  endeavors. 
In  these  circumstances  the  author  bids  adieu  to  fame ; writes 
for  bread ; and  for  that  only  imagination  is  seldom  called  in. 
He  sits  down  to  address  the  venal  muse  with  the  most  phleg- 
matic apathy ; and,  as  we  are  told  of  the  Russian,  courts  his 
mistress  by  falling  asleep  in  her  lap.” 

Again.  “Those  who  are  unacquainted  with  the  world  are 


62 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


apt  to  fancy  the  man  of  wit  as  leading  a very  agreeable  life. 
They  conclude,  perhaps,  that  lie  is  attended  with  silent  admi- 
ration, and  dictates  to  the  rest  of  mankind  with  all  the  elo- 
quence of  conscious  superiority.  Very  different  is  his  present 
situation.  He  is  called  an  author,  and  all  know  that  an  author 
is  a thing  only  to  he  laughed  at.  His  person,  not  his  jest,  be- 
comes the  mirth  of  the  company.  At  his  approach  the  most 
fat,  unthinking  face  brightens  into  malicious  meaning.  Even 
aldermen  laugh,  and  avenge  on  him  the  ridicule  which  was 
lavished  on  their  forefathers.  . . . The  poet’s  poverty  is  a 

standing  topic  of  contempt.  His  writing  for  bread  is  an  un- 
pardonable offence.  Perhaps  of  all  mankind,  an  author  in 
these  times  is  used  most  hardly.  We  keep  him  poor,  and  yet 
revile  his  poverty.  We  reproach  him  for  living  by  his  wit, 
and  yet  allow  him  no  other  means  to  live.  His  taking  refuge 
in  garrets  and  cellars  has  of  late  been  violently  objected  to 
him,  and  that  by  men  who,  I hope,  are  more  apt  to  pity  than 
insult  his  distress.  Is  poverty  a careless  fault?  No  doubt  he 
knows  how  to  prefer  a bottle  of  champagne  to  the  nectar  of 
the  neighboring  ale-house,  or  a venison  pasty  to  a plate  of  po- 
tatoes. Want  of  delicacy  is  not  in  him,  but  in  those  who  deny 
him  the  opportunity  of  making  an  elegant  choice.  Wit  cer- 
tainly is  the  property  of  those  who  have  it,  nor  should  we  be 
displeased  if  it  is  the  only  property  a man  sometimes  has.  We 
must  not  underrate  him  who  uses  it  for  subsistence,  and  flees 
from  the  ingratitude  of  the  age,  even  to  a bookseller  for  re- 
dress.” . . . 

‘ ‘ If  the  author  be  necessary  among  us,  let  us  treat  him  with 
proper  consideration  as  a child  of  the  public,  not  as  a rent- 
charge  on  the  community.  And  indeed  a child  of  the  public 
he  is  in  all  respects ; for  while  so  well  able  to  direct  others,  how 
incapable  is  he  frequently  found  of  guiding  himself.  His  sim- 
plicity exposes  him  to  all  the  insidious  approaches  of  cunning; 
his  sensibility,  to  the  slightest  invasions  of  contempt.  Though 
possessed  of  fortitude  to  stand  unmoved  the  expected  bursts 
of  an  earthquake,  yet  of  feelings  so  exquisitely  poignant  as  to 
agonize  under  the  slightest  disappointment.  Broken  rest, 
tasteless  meals,  and  causeless  anxieties  shorten  life,  and  render 
it  unfit  for  active  employments ; prolonged  vigils  and  intense 
application  still  farther  contract  his  span,  and  make  his  time 
glide  insensibly  away.” 

While  poor  Goldsmith  was  thus  struggling  with  the  difficul- 
ties and  discouragements  which  in  those  days  beset  the  path  of 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


63 


an  author,  his  friends  in  Ireland  received  accounts  of  his  lite- 
rary success  and  of  the  distinguished  acquaintances  he  was 
making.  This  was  enough  to  put  the  wise  heads  at  Lissoy  and 
Ballymahon  in  a ferment  of  conjectures.  With  the  exaggera- 
ted notions  of  provincial  relatives  concerning  the  family  great 
man  in  the  metropolis,  some  of  Goldsmith’s  poor  kindred  pic- 
tured him  to  themselves  seated  in  high  places,  clothed  in  purple 
and  fine  linen,  and  hand  and  glove  with  the  giver  of  gifts  and 
dispensers  of  patronage.  Accordingly,  he  was  one  day  sur- 
prised at  the  sudden  apparition,  in  his  miserable  lodging,  of  his 
younger  brother  Charles,  a raw  youth  of  twenty-one,  endowed 
with  a double  share  of  the  family  heedlessness,  and  who  ex- 
pected to  be  forthwith  helped  into  some  snug  by-path  to  for- 
tune by  one  or  other  of  Oliver’s  great  friends.  Charles  was 
sadly  disconcerted  on  learning  that,  so  far  from  being  able  to 
provide  for  others,  his  brother  could  scarcely  take  care  of  him- 
self. He  looked  round  with  a rueful  eye  on  the  poet’s  quarters, 
and  could  not  help  expressing  his  surprise  and  disappointment 
at  finding  him  no  better  off.  44A11  in  good  time,  my  dear 
boy,”  replied  poor  Goldsmith,  with  infinite  good-humor;  “I 
shall  be  richer  by  and  by.  Addison,  let  me  tell  you,  wrote  his 
poem  of  the  4 Campaign  ’ in  a garret  in  the  Haymarket,  three 
stories  high,  and  you  see  I am  not  come  to  that  yet,  for  I have 
only  got  to  the  second  story.” 

Charles  Goldsmith  did  not  remain  long  to  embarrass  his  bro- 
ther in  London.  With  the  same  roving  disposition  and  incon- 
siderate temper  of  Oliver,  he  suddenly  departed  in  an  humble 
capacity  to  seek  his  fortune  in  the  West  Indies,  and  nothing 
was  heard  of  him  for  above  thirty  years,  when,  after  having 
been  given  up  as  dead  by  his  friends,  he  made  his  reappearance 
in  England. 

Shortly  after  his  departure,  Goldsmith  wrote  a letter  to  his 
brother-in-law,  Daniel  Hodson,  Esq. , of  which  the  following  is 
an  extract ; it  was  partly  intended,  no  doubt,  to  dissipate  any 
further  illusions  concerning  his  fortunes  which  might  float  on 
the  magnificent  imagination  of  his  friends  in  Ballymahon. 

4 4 1 suppose  you  desire  to  know  my  present  situation.  As 
there  is  nothing  in  it  at  which  I should  blush,  or  which  man- 
kind could  censure,  I see  no  reason  for  making  it  a secret.  In 
short,  by  a very  little  practice  as  a physician,  and  a very  little 
reputation  as  a poet,  I make  a shift  to  live.  Nothing  is  more 
apt  to  introduce  us  to  the  gates  of  the  muses  than  poverty ; but 
it  were  well  if  thev  only  left  us  at  the  door.  The  mischief 


64 


OLIVKU  GOLDSMITH. 


is  they  sometimes  choose  to  give  us  their  company  to  the 
entertainment;  and  want,  instead  \f  being  gentleman-usher, 
often  turns  master  of  the  ceremonies. 

“Thus,  upon  learning  I write,  no  doubt  you  imagine  I starve; 
and  the  name  of  an  author  naturally  reminds  you  of  a garret. 
In  this  particular  I do  not  think  proper  to  undeceive  m^ 
friends.  But,  whether  I eat  or  starve,  live  in  a first  floor  01 
four  pairs  of  stairs  high,  I still  remember  them  with  ardor ; nay, 
my  very  country  comes  in  for  a share  of  my  affection.  Un- 
accountable fondness  for  country,  this  maladie  du  pais , as  the 
French  call  it!  Unaccountable  that  he  should  still  have  an 
affection  for  a place,  who  never,  when  in  it,  received  above 
common  civility ; who  never  brought  anything  out  of  it  except 
his  brogue  and  his  blunders.  Surely  my  affection  is  equally 
ridiculous  with  the  Scotchman’s,  who  refused  to  be  cured  of  the 
itch  because  it  made  him  unco’  thoughtful  of  his  wife  and 
bonny  Inverary. 

“ But  now,  to  be  serious:  let  me  ask  myself  what  gives  me  a 
wish  to  see  Ireland  again.  The  country  is  a fine  one,  perhaps? 
No.  There  are  good  company  in  Ireland?  No.  The  conversa- 
tion there  is  generally  made  up  of  a smutty  toast  or  a bawdy 
song ; the  vivacity  supported  by  some  humble  cousin,  who  had 
just  folly  enough  to  earn  his  dinner.  Then,  perhaps,  there  is 
more  wit  and  learning  among  the  Irish?  Oh,  Lord,  no!  There 
has  been  more  money  spent  in  the  encouragement  ot  the  Pada- 
reen  mare  there  one  season,  than  given  in  rewards  to  learned 
men  since  the  time  of  Usher.  All  their  productions  in  learning 
amount  to  perhaps  a.  translation,  or  a few  tracts  in  divinity ; 
and  all  their  productions  in  wit  to  just  nothing  at  all.  Why 
the  plague,  then,  so  fond  of  Ireland?  Then,  all  at  once,  be- 
cause you,  my  dear  friend,  and  a few  more  who  are  exceptions 
to  the  general  picture,  have  a residence  there.  This  i'o  is  that 
gives  me  all  the  pangs  I feel  in  separation.  I confess  I carry 
this  spirit  sometimes  to  the  souring  the  pleasures  I at  present 
possess.  Is  I go  to  the  opera,  where  Signora  Columba  pours 
out  all  the  mazes  of  melody,  I sit  and  sigh  for  Lissoy  fireside, 
and  Johnny  Armstrong’s  ‘Last  Good-night’  from  Peggy  Gol- 
den. If  I climb  Plampstead  Hill,  than  where  nature  never  ex- 
hibited a more  magnificent  prospect,  I confess  it  fine;  but  then 
I had  rather  be  placed  on  the  little  mount  before  Lissoy  gate, 
and  there  take  in,  to  me,  the  most  pleasing  horizon  in  nature. 

“Before  Chaxles  came  hither  my  thoughts  sometimes  found 
refuge  from  severer  studies  among  my  friends  in  Ireland.  I 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH . 


65 


fancied  strange  revolutions  at  home ; but  I find  it  was  the  ra- 
pidity of  my  own  motion  that  gave  an  imaginary  one  to  ob- 
jects really  at  rest.  No  alterations  there.  Some  friends,  he 
tells  me,  are  still  lean,  hut  very  rich ; others  very  fat,  but  still 
very  poor.  Nay,  all  the  news  I hear  of  you  is,  that  you  sally 
out  in  visits  among  the  neighbors,  and  sometimes  make  a mi- 
gration from  the  blue  bed  to  the  brown.  I could  from  my 
heart  wish  that  you  and  she  (Mrs.  Hodson),  and  Lissoy  and 
Ballymahon,  and  all  of  you,  would  fairly  make  a migration 
into  Middlesex;  though,  upon  second  thoughts,  this  might  be 
attended  with  a few  inconveniences.  Therefore,  as  the  moun- 
tain will  not  come  to  Mohammed,  why  Mohammed  shall  go  to 
the  mountain ; or,  to  speak  plain  English,  as  you  cannot  con- 
veniently pay  me  a visit,  if  next  summer  I can  contrive  to  be 
absent  six  weeks  from  London,  I shall  spend  three  of  them 
among  my  friends  in  Ireland.  But  first,  believe  me,  my  de- 
sign is  purely  to  visit,  and  neither  to  cut  a figure  nor  levy  con- 
tributions ; neither  to  excite  envy  nor  solicit  favor ; in  fact,  my 
circumstances  are  adapted  to  neither.  I am  too  poor  to  be 
gazed  at,  and  too  rich  to  need  assistance.” 


CHAPTER  IX. 

HACKNEY  AUTHORSHIP— THOUGHTS  OF  LITERARY  SUICIDE— RE- 
TURN TO  PECKHAM — ORIENTAL  PROJECTS — LITERARY  ENTER- 
PRISE TO  RAISE  FUNDS— LETTER  TO  EDWARD  WELLS — TO 
ROBERT  BRYANTON— DEATH  OF  UNCLE  CONTARINE— LETTER  TO 
COUSIN  JANE. 

For  some  time  Goldsmith  continued  to  write  miscellaneously 
for  reviews  and  other  periodical  publications,  but  without  mak- 
ing any  decided  hit,  to  use  a technical  term.  Indeed,  as  yet  he 
appeared  destitute  of  the  strong  excitement  of  literary  ambi- 
tion, and  wrote  only  on  the  spur  of  necessity  and  at  the  urgent 
importunity  of  his  bookseller.  His  indolent  and  truant  dispo- 
sition, ever  averse  from  labor  and  delighting  in  holiday,  had 
to  be  scourged  up  to  its  task ; still  it  was  this  very  truant  dis- 
position which  threw  an  unconscious  charm  over  everything 
he  wrote;  bringing  with  it  honeyed  thoughts  and  pictured 
images  which  had  sprung  up  in  his  mind  in  the  sunny  hours  of 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


idleness:  these  effusions,  dashed  off  on  compulsion  in  the  exi- 
gency of  the  moment,  were  published  anonymously;  so  that 
they  made  no  collective  impression  on  the  public,  and  reflected 
ao  fame  on  the  name  of  their  author. 

In  an  essay  published  some  time  subsequently  in  the  Bee , 
Goldsmith  adverts,  in  his  own  humorous  way,  to  his 
impatience  at  the  tardiness  with  which  his  desultory  and 
unacknowledged  essays  crept  into  notice.  “I  was  once 
induced,”  says  he,  “ to  show  my  indignation  against  the  pub- 
lic by  discontinuing  my  efforts  to  please,  and  was  bravely 
resolved,  like  Italeigli,  to  vex  them  by  burning  my  manu- 
scripts in  a passion.  Upon  reflection,  however,  I considered 
what  set  or  body  of  people  would  be  displeased  at  my  rashness, 
idle  sun,  after  so  sad  an  accident,  might  shine  next  morning 
as  bright  as  usual ; men  might  laugh  and  sing  the  next  day, 
and  transact  business  as  before ; and  not  a single  creature  feel 
any  regret  but  myself.  Instead  of  having  Apollo  in  mourn- 
ing or  the  Muses  in  a fit  of  the  spleen ; instead  of  having  the 
learned  world  apostrophizing  at  my  untimely  decease;  per- 
naps  all  Grub  Street  might  laugh  at  my  fate,  and  self -approv- 
ing dignity  be  unable  to  shield  me  from  ridicule.” 

Circumstances  occurred  about  this  time  to  give  a new  direc- 
tion to  Goldsmith’s  hopes  and  schemes.  Having  resumed  for 
a brief  period  the  superintendence  of  the  Peckham  school 
during  a fit  of  illness  of  Dr.  Milner,  that  gentleman,  in 
requital  for  his  timely  services,  promised  to  use  his  influence 
with  a friend,  an  East  India  director,  to  procure  him  a medical 
appointment  in  India. 

There  was  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  influence  of  Dr. 
Milner  would  be  effectual ; but  how  was  Goldsmith  to  find  the 
ways  and  means  of  fitting  himself  out  for  a voyage  to  the 
Indies?  In  this  emergency  he  was  driven  to  a more  extended 
exercise  of  the  pen  than  he  had  yet  attempted.  His  skirmish- 
'ing  among  books  as  a reviewer,  and  his  disputatious  ramble 
among  the  schools  and  universities  and  literati  of  the  Con- 
tinent, had  filled  his  mind  with  facts  and  observations  which 
he  now  set  about  digesting  into  a treatise  of  some  magnitude, 
to  be  entitled,  ‘ ‘ An  Inquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Polite 
Learning  in  Europe.”  As  the  work  grew  on  his  hands  his 
sanguine  temper  ran  ahead  of  his  labors.  Feeling  secure  of 
success  in  England,  he  was  anxious  to  forestall  the  piracy  of 
the  Irish  press ; for  as  yet,  the  union  not  having  taken  place, 
the  English  law  of  copyright  did  not  extend  to  the  other  sid$ 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


67 


of  the  Irish  Channel.  He  wrote,  therefore,  to  his  friends  in 
Ireland,  urging  them  to  circulate  his  proposals  for  his  contem- 
plated work,  and  obtain  subscriptions  payable  in  advance*, 
the  money  to  be  transmitted  to  a Mr.  Bradley,  an  eminent 
bookseller  in  Dublin,  who  would  give  a receipt  for  it  and  be 
accountable  for  the  delivery  of  the  books.  The  letters  written 
by  him  on  this  occasion  are  worthy  of  copious  citation  as 
being  full  of  character  and  interest.  One  was  to  his  relative 
and  college  intimate,  Edward  Wells,  who  had  studied  for 
the  bar,  but  was  now  living  at  ease  on  his  estate  on  Ros- 
common. “ You  have  quitted,”  writes  Goldsmith,  “the  plan 
of  life  which  you  once  intended  to  pursue,  and  given  up 
ambition  for  domestic  tranquillity.  I cannot  avoid  feeling 
some  regret  that  one  of  my  few  friends  has  declined  a pursuit 
in  which  he  had  every  reason  to  expect  success.  I have  often 
let  my  fancy  loose  when  you  were  the  subject,  and  have 
imagined  you  gracing  the  bench,  or  thundering  at  the  bar; 
while  I have  taken  no  small  pride  to  myself,  and  whispered  to 
all  that  I could  come  near,  that  this  was  my  cousin.  Instead 
of  this,  it  seems,  that  you  are  merely  contented  to  be  a happy 
man;  to  be  esteemed  by  your  acquaintances;  to  cultivate 
your  paternal  acres ; to  take  unmolested  a nap  under  one  of 
your  own  hawthorns  or  in  Mrs.  Wells’s  bedchamber,  which 
even  a poet  must  confess  is  rather  the  more  comfortable  place 
of  the  two.  But,  however  your  resolutions  may  be  altered 
with  regard  to  your  situation  in  life,  I persuade  myself  they 
are  unalterable  with  respect  to  your  friends  in  it.  I cannot 
think  the  world  has  taken  such  entire  possession  of  that  heart 
(once  so  susceptible  of  friendship)  as  not  to  have  left  a corner 
there  for  a friend  or  two,  but  I flatter  myself  that  even  I have 
a place  among  the  number.  This  I have  a claim  to  from  the 
similitude  of  our  dispositions;  or  setting  that  aside,  1 can 
demand  it  as  a right  by  the  most  equitable  law  of  nature ; I 
mean  that  of  retaliation ; for  indeed  you  have  more  than  your 
share  in  mine.  I am  a man  of  few  professions ; and  yet  at  this 
very  instant  I cannot  avoid  the  painful  apprehension  that  my 
present  professions  (which  speak  not  half  my  feelings)  should 
be  considered  only  as  a pretext  to  cover  a request,  as  I have  a 
request  to  make.  No,  my  dear  Ned,  I know  you  are  too 
generous  to  think  so,  and  you  know  me  too  proud  to  stoop  to 
unnecessary  insincerity — I have  a request,  it  is  true,  to  make, 
but  as  I know  to  whom  I am  a petitioner,  I make  it  without 
iffldence  or  confusion.  It  is  in  short  this,  I am  going  to  pub- 


68 


Oil  VETl  a 0 L DSM1  TIL 


lish  a hook  in  London,’’  etc.  The  residue  of  the  letter  specifies 
the  nature  of  the  request,  which  was  merely  to  aid  in  circulat- 
ing his  proposals  and  obtaining  subscriptions.  The  letter  of 
the  poor  author,  however,  was  unattended  to  and  unac' 
knowledged  by  the  prosperous  Mr.  Wells,  of  Roscommon, 
though  in  after  years  he  was  proud  to  claim  relationship  to  Dr. 
Goldsmith,  when  lie  had  risen  to  celebrity. 

Another  of  Goldsmith’s  letters  was  io  Robert  Bryanton, 
with  whom  he  had  long  ceased  to  be  in  correspondence.  1 4 1 
believe,”  writes  he,  44  that  they  who  are  drunk,  or  out  of  their 
wits,  fancy  everybody  else  in  the  same  condition.  Mine  is  a 
friendship  that  neither  distance  nor  time  can  efface,  which  is 
probably  the  reason  that,  for  the  soul  of  me,  I can’t  avoid 
thinking  yours  of  the  same  cemplexion ; and  yet  I have  many 
reasons  for  being  of  a contrary  opinion,  else  why,  in  so  long 
an  absence,  was  I never  made  a partner  in  your  concerns? 
To  hear  of  your  success  would  have  given  me  the  utmost 
pleasure ; and  a communication  of  your  very  disappointments 
would  divide  the  uneasiness  I too  frequently  feel  for  my  own. 
Indeed,  my  dear  Bob,  you  don’t  conceive  how  unkindly  you 
have  treated  one  whose  circumstances  afford  him  few  pros- 
pects of  pleasure,  except  those  reflected  from  the  happiness  of 
his  friends.  However,  since  you  have  not  let  me  hear  from 
you,  I have  in  some  measure  disappointed  your  neglect  by 
frequently  thinking  of  you.  Every  day  or  so  I remember  the 
calm  anecdotes  of  your  life,  from  the  fireside  to  the  easy  chair ; 
recall  the  first  adventures  that  first  cemented  our  friendship ; 
the  school,  the  college,  or  the  tavern;  preside  in  fancy  over 
your  cards;  and  am  displeased  at  your  bad  play  when  the 
rubber  goes  against  you,  though  not  with  all  that  agony  of 
soul  as  when  I was  once  your  partner.  Is  it  not  strange  that 
two  of  such  like  affections  should  be  so  much  separated,  and 
so  differently  employed  as  we  are?  You  seem  placed  at  the 
centre  of  fortune’s  wheel,  and,  let  it  revolve  never  so  fast,  are 
insensible  of  the  motion.  I seem  to  have  been  tied  to  the  cir- 
cumference, and  whirled  disagreeably  round,  as  if  on  a whirli- 
gig. ” 

He  then  runs  into  a whimsical  and  extravagant  tirade  about 
his  future  prospects,  the  wonderful  career  of  fame  and  for- 
tune that  awaits  him ; and  after  indulging  in  all  kinds  of  humor- 
ous gasconades,  concludes:  4 4 Let  me,  then,  stop  my  fancy  to 
take  a view  of  my  future  self — and,  as  the  boys  say,  light  down 
to  see  myself  on  horseback.  Well,  now  that  I am  down,  where 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  69 

the  d— 1 is  If  Oh  gods!  gods!  here  in  a garret,  writing  for 
bread,  and  expecting  to  be  dunned  for  a milk  score!” 

He  would,  on  this  occasion,  have  doubtless  written  to  his 
uncle  Contarine,  but  that  generous  friend  was  sunk  into 
a helpless  hopeless  state  from  which  death  soon  released 
him. 

Cut  off  thus  from  the  kind  co-operation  of  his  uncle,  he  ad- 
dresses a letter  to  his  cousin  Jane,  the  companion  of  his 
school-boy  and  happy  days,  now  the  wife  of  Mr.  Lawder.  The 
object  was  to  secure  her  interest  with  her  husband  in  promoting 
the  circulation  of  his  proposals.  The  letter  is  full  of  character. 

“If  you  should  ask,”  he  begins,  “why,  in  an  interval  of  so 
many  years,  you  never  heard  from  me,  permit  me,  madam,  to 
ask  the  same  question.  I have  the  best  excuse  in  recrimination. 
I wrote  to  Kilmore  from  Leyden  in  Holland,  from  Louvain  in 
Flanders,  and  Rouen  in  France,  but  received  no  answer.  To 
what  could  I attribute  this  silence  but  to  displeasure  or  forgetful- 
ness? Whether  I was  right  in  my  conjecture  I do  not  pretend 
to  determine ; but  this  I must  ingenuously  own,  that  I have  a 
thousand  times  in  my  turn  endeavored  to  forget  them , whom  I 
could  not  but  look  upon  as  forgetting  me.  I have  attempted  to 
blot  their  names  from  my  memory,  and,  I confess  it,  spent  whole 
days  in  efforts  to  tear  their  image  from  my  heart.  Could  I have 
succeeded,  you  had  not  now  been  troubled  with  this  renewal  of 
a discontinued  correspondence ; but,  as  every  effort  the  restless 
make  to  procure  sleep  serves  but  to  keep  them  waking*  all  my 
attempts  contributed  to  impress  what  I would  forget  deeper  on 
my  imagination.  But  this  subject  I would  willingly  turn  from, 
and  yet,  ‘ for  the  soul  of  me,  ’ I can’t  till  I have  said  all.  I was, 
madam,  when  I discontinued  writing  to  Kilmore,  in  such  cir- 
cumstances that  all  my  endeavors  to  continue  your  regards 
might  be  attributed  to  wrong  motives.  My  letters  might  be 
looked  upon  as  the  petitions  of  a beggar,  and  not  the  offerings 
of  a friend ; while  all  my  professions,  instead  of  being  consid- 
ered as  the  result  of  disinterested  esteem,  might  be  ascribed  to 
venal  insincerity.  I believe,  indeed,  you  had  too  much  gener- 
osity to  place  them  in  such  a light,  but  I could  not  bear  even 
the  shadow  of  such  a suspicion.  The  most  delicate  friendships 
are  always  most  sensible  of  the  slightest  invasion,  and  the 
strongest  jealousy  is  ever  attendant  on  the  warmest  regard.  I 
could  not — I own  I could  not —continue  a correspondence  in 
which  every  acknowledgment  for  past  favors  might  be  consitL 
fired  as  an  indirect  request  fop  future  gpjs  \ apd  where  it  might 


70 


OLIVER  O OLD SMITH. 


bo  thought  I gave  my  heart  from  a motive  of  gratitude  alone, 
when  I was  conscious  of  having  bestowed  it  on  much  more  dis* 
interested  principles.  It  is  true,  this  conduct  might  have  been 
simple  enough ; but  yourself  must  confess  it  was  in  character 
Those  who  know  me  at  all,  know  that  I have  always  been  actu- 
ated by  different  principles  from  the  rest  of  mankind:  and 
while  none  regarded  the  interest  of  his  friend  more,  no  man  on 
earth  regarded  his  own  less.  I have  often  affected  bluntness  to 
avoid  the  imputation  of  flattery;  have  frequently  seemed  to 
overlook  those  merits  too  obvious  to  escape  notice,  and  pre- 
tended disregard  to  those  instances  of  good  nature  and  good 
sense,  which  I could  not  fail  tacitly  to  applaud ; and  all  this 
lest  I should  be  ranked  among  the  grinning  tribe,  who  say 
4 very  true  ’ to  all  that  is  said ; who  fill  a vacant  chair  at  a tea- 
table  ; whose  narrow  souls  never  moved  in  a wider  circle  than 
the  circumference  of  a guinea ; and  who  had  rather  be  reckon- 
ing the  money  in  your  pocket  than  the  virtue  in  your  breast. 
All  this,  I say,  I have  done,  and  a thousand  other  very  silly, 
though  very  disinterested,  things  in  my  time,  and  for  all  which 
no  soul  cares  a farthing  about  me.  . . . Is  it  to  be  wondered 
that  he  should  once  in  his  life  forget  you,  who  has  been  all  his 
life  forgetting  himself?  However,  it  is  probable  you  may  one 
of  these  days  see  me  turned  into  a perfect  hunks,  and  as  dark 
and  intricate  as  a mouse-hole.  I have  already  given  my  land- 
lady orders  for  an  entire  reform  in  the  state  of  my  finances.  I 
declaim  against  hot  suppers,  drink  less  sugar  in  my  tea,  and 
check  my  grate  with  brickbats.  Instead  of  hanging  my  room 
with  pictures,  I intend  to  adorn  it  with  maxims  of  frugality. 
Those  will  make  pretty  furniture  enough,  and  won’t  be  a bit 
too  expensive ; for  I will  draw  them  all  out  with  my  own  hands, 
and  my  landlady’s  daughter  shall  frame  them  with  the  parings 
of  my  black  waistcoat.  Each  maxim  is  to  be  inscribed  on  a 
sheet  of  clean  paper,  and  wrote  with  my  best  pen ; of  which  the 
following  will  serve  as  a specimen.  Look  sharp : Mind  the  main 
chance : Money  is  money  now : If  you  have  a thousand  pounds 
you  can  put  your  hands  by  your  sides , and  say  you  are  worth  a 
thousand  pounds  every  day  of  the  year : Take  a farthing  from 
a hundred  and  it  will  be  a hundred  no  longer.  Thus,  which 
way  soever  I turn  my  eyes,  they  are  sure  to  meet  one  of  those 
friendly  monitors ; and  as  we  are  told  of  an  actor  who  hung  his 
room  round  with  looking-glass  to  correct  the  defects  of  his  per- 
son, my  apartment  shall  be  furnished  in  a peculiar  manner,  to 
correct  the  errors  of  my  mind.  Faith ! madam.  I heartily  wish 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, . 


71 


to  be  rich,  if  it  were  only  for  this  reason,  to  say  without  a 
blush  how  much  I esteem  you.  But,  alas!  I have  many  a 
fatigue  to  encounter  before  that  happy  time  comes,  when  your 
poor  old  simple  friend  may  again  give  a loose  to  the  luxuriance 
of  his  nature ; sitting  by  Kilmore  fireside,  recount  the  various 
adventures  of  a hard-fought  life ; laugh  over  the  follies  of  the 
day;  join  his  flute  to  your  harpsichord;  and  forget  that  ever 
he  starved  in  those  streets  where  Butler  and  Otway  starved  be* 
fore  him.  And  now  I mention  those  great  names — my  uncle  I 
he  is  no  more  that  soul  of  fire  as  when  I once  knew  him.  New- 
ton and  Swift  grew  dim  with  age  as  well  as  he.  But  what  shall 
I say?  His  mind  was  too  active  an  inhabitant  not  to  disorder 
the  feeble  mansion  of  its  abode : for  the  richest  jewels  soonest 
wear  their  settings.  Yet  who  but  the  fool  would  lament  his 
Condition ! He  now  forgets  the  calamities  of  life.  Perhaps  in- 
dulgent Heaven  has  given  him  a foretaste  of  that  tranquillity 
here,  which  he  so  well  deserves  hereafter.  But  I must  come  to 
business ; for  business,  as  one  of  my  maxims  tells  me,  must  be 
minded  or  lost.  I am  going  to  publish  in  London  a book  en- 
titled 4 The  Present  State  of  Taste  and  Literature  in  Europe.’ 
The  booksellers  in  Ireland  republish  every  performance  there 
without  making  the  author  any  consideration.  I would,  in 
this  respect,  disappoint  their  avarice  and  have  all  the  profits  of 
my  labor  to  myself.  I must  therefore  request  Mr.  Lawder  to 
circulate  among  his  friends  and  acquaintances  a hundred  of  my 
proposals  which  I have  given  the  bookseller,  Mr.  Bradley,  in 
Dame  Street,  directions  to  send  to  him.  If,  in  pursuance  of 
such  circulation,  he  should  receive  any  subscriptions,  I entreat, 
when  collected,  they  may  be  sent  to  Mr.  Bradley,  as  aforesaid, 
who  will  give  a receipt,  and  be  accountable  for  the  work,  or  a 
return  of  the  subscription.  If  this  request  (which,  if  it  be  com- 
plied with,  will  in  some  measure  be  an  encouragement  to  a man 
of  learning)  should  be  disagreeable  or  troublesome,  I would  not 
press  it ; for  I would  be  the  last  man  on  earth  to  have  my 
labors  go  a-begging;  but  if  I know  Mr.  Lawder  (and  sure  I 
ought  to  know  him),  he  will  accept  the  employment  with  pleas- 
ure. All  I can  say — if  he  writes  a book,  I will  get  him  two 
hundred  subscribers,  and  those  of  the  best  wits  in  Europe. 
Whether  this  request  is  complied  with  or  not,  I shall  not  be 
uneasy ; but  there  is  one  petition  I must  make  to  him  and  to 
you,  which  I solicit  with  the  warmest  ardor,  and  in  which  I 
cannot  bear  a refusal.  I mean,  dear  madam,  that  I may  be 
allowed  to  subscribe  myself,  your  ever  affectionate  and  obliged 


72 


OLIVER  GOLD  SMITH. 


kinsman,  Oliver  Goldsmith.  Now  see  how  I blot  and  blun* 
der,  when  I am  asking  a favor.” 


CHAPTER  X. 

ORIENTAL  APPOINTMENT — AND  DISAPPOINTMENT— EXAMINATION 
AT  THE  COLLEGE  OF  SURGEONS— HOW  TO  PROCURE  A SUIT  OF 
CLOTHES— FRESH  DISAPPOINTMENT — A TALE  OF  DISTRESS — THE 
SUIT  OF  CLOTHES  IN  PAWN — PUNISHMENT  FOR  DOING  AN  ACT 
OF  CHARITY — GAYETIES  OF  GREEN  ARBOR  COURT — LETTER  TO 
HIS  BROTHER — LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE— SCROGGIN,  AN  ATTEMPT  AT 
MOCK-HEROIC  POETRY. 

While  Goldsmith  was  yet  laboring  at  his  treatise,  the  pro- 
mise made  him  by  Dr.  Milner  was  carried  into  effect,  and  he 
was  actually  appointed  physician  and  surgeon  to  one  of  the 
factories  on  the  coast  of  Coromandel.  His  imagination  was 
immediately  on  fire  with  visions  of  Oriental  wealth  and  mag- 
nificence. It  is  true  the  salary  did  not  exceed  one  hundred 
pounds,  but  then,  as  appointed  physician,  he  would  have  the 
exclusive  practice  of  the  place,  amounting  to  one  thousand 
pounds  per  annum ; with  advantages  to  be  derived  from  trade, 
and  from  the  high  interest  of  money — twenty  per  cent ; in  a 
word,  for  once  in  his  life,  the  road  to  fortune  lay  broad  and 
straight  before  him. 

Hitherto,  in  his  correspondence  with  his  friends,  he  had  said 
nothing  of  his  India  scheme ; but  now  he  imparted  to  them  his 
brilliant  prospects,  urging  the  importance  of  their  circulating 
his  proposals  and  obtaining  him  subscriptions  and  advances  on 
his  forthcoming  work,  to  furnish  funds  for  his  outfit. 

In  the  mean  time  he  had  to  task  that  poor  drudge,  his  muse, 
for  present  exigencies.  Ten  pounds  were  demanded  for  his 
appointment- warrant.  Other  expenses  pressed  hard  upon 
him.  Fortunately,  though  as  yet  unknown  to  fame,  his 
literary  capability  was  known  to  ‘ ‘ the  trade,  ” and  the  coinage 
of  his  brain  passed  current  in  Grub  Street.  Archibald  Hamil- 
ton, proprietor  of  the  Critical  Review , the  rival  to  that  of  Grif- 
fiths, readily  made  him  a small  advance  on  receiving  three 
articles  for  his  periodical.  His  purse  thus  slenderly  replem 
Ished,  Qolcjsmith  paid  for  his  warrant;  wiped  off  the  score  of 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


73 


his  milkmaid;  abandoned  his  garret,  and  moved  into  a shabby 
first  floor  in  a forlorn  court  near  the  Chd  Bailey ; there  to  await 
the  time  for  his  migration  to  the  magnificent  coast  of  Coro- 
mandel. 

Alas!  poor  Goldsmith!  ever  doomed  to  disappointment* 
Early  in  the  gloomy  month  of  November,  that  month  of  fog 
and  despondency  in  London,  he  learned  the  shipwreck  of  his 
hope.  The  great  Coromandel  enterprise  fell  through ; or  rathe  ' 
the  post  promised  to  him  was  transferred  to  some  other  candi 
date.  The  cause  of  this  disappointment  it  is  now  impossible  tc 
ascertain.  The  death  of  his  quasi  patron,  Dr.  Milner,  which 
happened  about  this  time,  may  have  had  some  effect  in  pro- 
ducing it;  or  there  may  have  been  some  heedlessness  and 
blundering  on  his  own  part;  or  some  obstacle  arising  from 
his  insuperable  indigence ; whatever  may  have  been  the 
cause,  he  never  mentioned  it,  which  gives  some  ground  to 
surmise  that  he  himself  was  to  blame.  His  friends  learned 
with  surprise  that  he  had  suddenly  relinquished  his  appoint- 
ment to  India  about  which  he  had  raised  such  sanguine  expec- 
tations; some  accused  him  of  fickleness  and  caprice;  others 
supposed  him  unwilling  to  tear  himself  from  the  growing  fasci- 
nations of  the  literary  society  of  London. 

In  the  mean  time,  cut  down  in  his  hopes,  and  humiliated  in 
his  pride  by  the  failure  of  his  Coromandel  scheme,  he  sought, 
without  consulting  his  friends,  to  be  examined  at  the  College  of 
Physicians  for  the  humble  situation  of  hospital  mate.  Even 
here  poverty  stood  in  his  way.  It  was  necessary  to  appear  in 
a decent  garb  before  the  examining  committee ; but  how  was 
he  to  do  so?  He  was  literally  out  at  elbows  as  well  as  out  of 
cash.  Here  again  the  muse,  so  often  jilted  and  neglected  by 
him,  came  to  his  aid.  In  consideration  of  four  articles  fur- 
nished to  the  Monthly  Review , Griffiths,  his  old  taskmaster, 
was  to  become  his  security  to  the  tailor  for  a suit  of  clothes. 
Goldsmith  said  he  wanted  them  but  for  a single  occasion,  on 
which  depended  his  appointment  to  a situation  in  the  army ; as 
soon  as  that  temporary  purpose  was  served  they  would  either 
be  returned  or  paid  for.  The  books  to  be  reviewed  were  ac- 
cordingly lent  to  him ; the  muse  was  again  set  to  her  compul- 
sory drudgery ; the  articles  were  scribbled  off  and  sent  to  the 
bookseller,  and  the  clothes  came  in  due  time  from  the  tailor. 

From  the  records  of  the  College  of  Surgeons,  it  appears  that 
Goldsmith  underwent  his  examination  at  Surgeons’  Hall  on  the 
gist  of  December*  1758, 


74 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Either  from  a confusion  of  mind  incident  to  sensitive  and 
imaginative  persons  on  such  occasions,  or  from  a real  want  of 
surgical  science,  which  last  is  extremely  probable,  he  failed  in 
his  examination,  and  was  rejected  as  unqualified.  The  effect 
of  such  a rejection  was  to  disqualify  him  for  every  branch  of 
public  service,  though  he  might  have  claimed  a re-examina- 
tion, after  the  interval  of  a few  months  devoted  to  further 
study.  Such  a re-examination  he  never  attempted,  nor  did  he 
ever  communicate  his  discomfiture  to  any  of  his  friends. 

On  Christmas  day,  but  four  days  after  his  rejection  by  the 
College  of  Surgeons,  while  he  was  suffering  under  the  mortifi- 
cation of  defeat  and  disappointment,  and  hard  pressed  for 
means  of  subsistence,  he  was  surprised  by  the  entrance  into  his 
room  of  the  poor  woman  of  whom  he  hired  his  wretched  apart- 
ment, and  to  whom  he  owed  some  small  arrears  of  rent.  She 
had  a piteous  tale  of  distress,  and  was  clamorous  in  her  afflic- 
tions. Her  husband  had  been  arrested  in  the  night  for  debt, 
and  thrown  into  prison.  This  was  too  much  for  the  quick 
feelings  of  Goldsmith;  he  was  ready  at  any  time  to  help  the 
distressed,  but  in  this  instance  he  was  himself  in  some  measure 
a cause  of  the  distress.  What  was  to  be  done?  He  had  no 
money,  it  is  true ; but  there  hung  the  new  suit  of  clothes  in 
which  he  had  stood  his  unlucky  examination  at  Surgeons’ 
Hall.  Without  giving  himself  time  for  reflection,  he  sent  it  off 
to  the  pawnbroker’s,  and  raised  thereon  a.  sufficient  sum  to  pay 
off  his  own  debt,  and  to  release  his  landlord  from  prison. 

Under  the  same  pressure  of  penury  and  despondency,  he 
borrowed  from  a neighbor  a pittance  to  relieve  his  immediate 
wants,  leaving  as  a security  the  books  which  he  had  recently 
reviewed.  In  the  midst  of  these  straits  and  harassments,  he  re- 
ceived a letter  from  Griffiths  demanding  in  peremptory  terms 
the  return  of  the  clothes  and  books,  or  immediate  payment  for 
the  same.  It  appears  that  he  had  discovered  the  identical  suit 
at  the  pawnbroker’s.  The  reply  of  Goldsmith  is  not  known ; 
it  was  out  of  his  power  to  furnish  either  the  clothes  or  the 
money ; but  he  probably  offered  once  more  to  make  the  muse 
stand  his  bail.  His  reply  only  increased  the  ire  of  the  wealthy 
man  of  trade,  and  drew  from  him  another  letter  still  more 
harsh  than  the  first,  using  the  epithets  of  knave  and  sharper, 
and  containing  threats  of  prosecution  and  a prison. 

The  following  letter  from  poor  Goldsmith  gives  the  most  touch- 
ing picture  of  an  inconsiderate  but  sensitive  man,  harassed  by 
care,  stung  by  humiliations,  and  driven  almost  to  despondency. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


75 


“Sir:  I know  of  no  misery  but  a jail  to  which  my  own  im- 
prudences and  your  letter  seem  to  point.  I have  seen  it  inevi- 
table these  three  or  four  weeks,  and,  by  heavens ! request  it  as 
a favor— as  a favor  that  may  prevent  something  more  fatal.  I 
have  been  some  years  struggling  with  a wretched  being — with 
all  that  contempt  that  indigence  brings  with  it— with  all  those 
passions  which  make  contempt  insupportable.  What,  then, 
has  a jail  that  is  formidable?  I shall  at  least  have  the  society 
of  wretches,  and  such  is  to  me  true  society.  I tell  you,  again 
and  again,  that  I am  neither  able  nor  willing  to  pay  you  a 
farthing,  but  I will  be  punctual  to  any  appointment  you  or  the 
tailor  shall  make ; thus  far,  at  least,  I do  not  act  the  sharper, 
since,  unable  to  pay  my  own  debts  one  way,  I would  generally 
give  some  security  another.  No,  sir ; had  I been  a sharper — 
had  I been  possessed  of  less  good-nature  and  native  generosity, 
I might  surely  now  have  been  in  better  circumstances. 

“I  am  guilty,  I own,  of  meannesses  which  poverty  unavoid- 
ably brings  with  it ; my  reflections  are  filled  with  repentance 
for  my  imprudence,  but  not  with  any  remorse  for  being  a vill 
lain ; that  may  be  a character  you  unjustly  charge  me  with. 
Your  books,  I can  assure  you,  are  neither  pawned  nor  sold, 
but  in  the  custody  of  a friend,  from  whom  my  necessities 
obliged  me  to  borrow  some  money ; whatever  becomes  of  my 
person,  you  shall  have  them  in  a month.  It  is  very  possible 
both  the  reports  you  have  heard  and  your  own  suggestions 
may  have  brought  you  false  information  with  respect  to  my 
character;  it  is  very  possible  that  the  man  whom  you  now 
regard  with  detestation  may  inwardly  burn  with  grateful  re- 
sentment. It  is  very  possible  that,  upon  a second  perusal  of 
the  letter  I sent  you,  you  may  see  the  workings  of  a mind 
strongly  agitated  with  gratitude  and  jealousy.  If  such  cir- 
cumstances should  appear,  at  least  spare  invective  till  my  book 
with  Mr.  Dodsley  shall  be  published,  and  then,  perhaps,  you 
may  see  the  bright  side  of  a mind,  when  my  professions  shall 
not  appear  the  dictates  of  necessity,  but  of  choice. 

“ You  seem  to  think  Dr.  Milner  knew  me  not.  Perhaps  so; 
but  he  was  a man  I shall  ever  honor ; but  I have  friendships 
only  with  the  dead ! I ask  pardon  for  taking  up  so  much  time; 
nor  shall  I add  to  it  by  any  other  professions  than  that  I am, 
sir,  your  humble  servant 

“ Oliver  Goldmith. 

“ P.Ss— I shall  expect  impatiently  the  result  of  your  resohv 


76 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


The  dispute  between  the  poet  and  the  publisher  was  after, 
ward  imperfectly  adjusted,  and  it  would  appear  that  the 
clothes  were  paid  for  by  a short  compilation  advertised  by 
Griffiths  in  the  course  of  the  following  month ; hut  the  parties 
were  never  really  friends  afterwards,  and  the  writings  of  Gold- 
smith were  harshly  and  unjustly  treated  in  the  Monthly  Re~ 
vieiv. 

We  have  given  the  preceding  anecdote  in  detail,  as  furnish- 
ing one  of  the  many  instances  in  which  Goldsmith’s  prompt  * 
and  benevolent  impulses  outran  all  prudent  forecast,  and  in- 
volved him  in  difficulties  and  disgraces,  which  a more  selfish 
man  would  have  avoided.  The  pawning  of  the  clothes,  charged 
upon  him  as  a crime  by  the  grinding  bookseller,  and  apparently 
admitted  by  him  as  one  of  4 1 the  meannesses  which  poverty 
unavoidably  brings  with  it,”  resulted,  as  we  have  shown,  from 
a tenderness  of  heart  and  generosity  of  hand  in  which  another 
man  would  have  gloried ; but  these  were  such  natural  elements 
with  him,  that  he  was  unconscious  of  their  merit.  It  is  a pity 
that  wealth  does  not  oftener  bring  such  “meannesses”  in  its 
train. 

And  now  let  us  be  indulged  in  a few  particulars  about  these 
lodgings  in  which  Goldsmith  was  guilty  of  this  thoughtless  act 
of  benevolence.  They  were  in  a very  shabby  house,  No.  12 
Green  Arbor  Court,  between  the  Old  Bailey  and  Fleet  Market. 
An  old  woman  was  still  living  in  1820  who  was  a relative  of  the 
identical  landlady  whom  Goldsmith  relieved  by  the  money  re- 
ceived from  the  pawnbroker.  She  was  a child  about  seven 
years  of  age  at  the  time  chat  the  poet  rented  his  apartment  of 
her  relative,  and  used  frequently  to  be  at  the  house  in  Green 
Arbor  Court.  She  was  drawn  there,  in  a great  measure,  by 
the  good-humored  kindness  of  Goldsmith,  who  was  always  ex- 
ceedingly fond  of  the  society  of  children.  He  used  to  assemble 
those  of  the  family  in  his  room,  give  them  cakes  and  sweet-’ 
meats,  and  set  them  dancing  to  the  sound  of  his  flute.  He  was 
very  friendly  to  those  around  him,  and  cultivated  a kind  of 
intimacy  with  a watchmaker  in  the  Court,  who  possessed 
much  native  wit  and  humor.  He  passed  most  of  the  day, 
however,  in  his  room,  and  only  went  out  in  the  evenings.  His 
days  were  no  doubt  devoted  to  the  drudgery  of  the  pen,  and 
it  would  appear  that  he  occasionally  found  the  booksellers 
urgent  taskmasters.  On  one  occasion  a visitor  was  shown  up 
to  his  room,  and  immediately  their  voices  were  heard  In  high 
idterc&tiQPi  and  the  key  was  turned  within  tb§  lock.  Tfef 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  77 

landlady,  at  first,  was  disposed  to  go  to  the  assistance  of  her 
lodger ; but  a calm  succeeding,  she  forbore  to  interfere. 

Late  in  the  evening  the  door  was  unlocked ; a supper  ordered 
by  the  visitor  from  a neighboring  tavern,  and  Goldsmith  and 
his  intrusive  guest  finished  the  evening  in  great  good-humor. 
It  was  probably  his  old  taskmaster  Griffiths,  whose  press 
might  have  been  waiting,  and  who  found  no  other  mode  of 
getting  a stipulated  task  from  Goldsmith  than  by  locking  him 
in,  and  staying  by  him  until  it  was  finished. 

But  we  have  a more  particular  account  of  these  lodgings  in 
Green  Arbor  Court  from  the  Rev.  Thomas  Percy,  afterward 
Bishop  of  Dromore,  and  celebrated  for  his  relics  of  ancient 
poetry,  his  beautiful  ballads,  and  other  works.  During  an 
occasional  visit  to  London,  he  was  introduced  to  Goldsmith  by 
Grainger,  and  ever  after  continued  one  of  his  most  steadfast 
and  valued  friends.  The  following  is  his  description  of  the 
poet’s  squalid  apartment : 44  I called  on  Goldsmith  at  his  lodg- 
ings in  March,  1759,  and  found  him  writing  his  4 Inquiry  ’ in  a 
miserable  dirty-looking  room,  in  which  there  was  but  one 
chair ; and  when,  from  civility,  he  resigned  it  to  me,  he  him- 
self was  obliged  to  sit  in  the  window.  While  we  were  con- 
versing together  some  one  tapped  gently  at  the  door,  and  being 
desired  to  come  in,  a poor,  ragged  little  girl,  of  a very  be- 
coming demeanor,  entered  the  room,  and  dropping  a courte- 
sy, said,  4 My  mamma  sends  her  compliments  and  begs  the 
favor  of  you  to  lend  her  a chamber-pot  full  of  coals.’  ” 

We  are  reminded  in  this  anecdote  of  Goldsmith’s  picture  of 
the  lodgings  of  Beau  Tibbs,  and  of  the  peep  into  the  secrets  of  a 
makeshift  establishment  given  to  a visitor  by  the  blundering 
old  Scotch  woman. 

“By  this  time  we  were  arrived  as  high  as  the  stairs  would 
permit  us  to  ascend,  till  we  came  to  what  he  was  facetiously 
pleased  to  call  the  first  floor  down  the  chimney ; and,  knocking 
at  the  door,  a voice  from  within  demanded  ‘Who’s  there?’ 
My  conductor  answered  that  it  was  him.  But  this  not  satisfy- 
ing the  querist,  the  voice  again  repeated  the  demand,  to  which 
he  answered  louder  than  before ; and  now  the  door  was  opened 
by  an  old  woman  with  cautious  reluctance. 

“When  we  got  in  he  welcomed  me  to  his  house  with  great 
ceremony ; and,  turning  to  the  old  woman,  asked  where  was 
her  lady.  4 Good  troth,  ’ replied  she,  in  a peculiar  dialect, 
4 she’s  washing  your  twa  shirts  at  the  next  door,  because  they 
have  taken  an  oath  against  lending  the  tub  any  longer.’  4 My 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


78 

two  shirts, ’ cried  he,  in  a tone  that  faltered  with  confusion; 
‘ what  does  the  idiot  mean?  ’ 4 I ken  what  I mean  weel  enough, 
replied  the  other ; 4 she’s  washing  your  twa  shires  at  the  next 
door,  because—’  4 Fire  and  fury ! no  more  of  thy  stupid  ex* 
planations,’  cried  he;  4 go  and  inform  her  we  have  company. 
Were  that  Scotch  hag  to  be  for  ever  in  my  family,  she  would 
never  learn  politeness,  nor  forget  that  absurd  poisonous  accent 
of  hers,  or  testify  the  smallest  specimen  of  breeding  or  high 
life  • and  yet  it  is  very  surprising  too,  as  I had  her  from  a Par- 
liament man,  a friend  of  mine  from  the  Highlands,  one  of  the 
politest  men  in  the  world ; but  that’s  a secret.’”  * 

Let  us  linger  a little  in  Green  Arbor  Court,  a place  conse- 
crated by  the  genius  and  the  poverty  of  Goldsmith,  but  re- 
cently obliterated  in  the  course  of  modern  improvements.  The 
writer  of  this  memoir  visited  it  not  many  years  since  on  a 
literary  pilgrimage,  and  may  be  excused  for  repeating  a de- 
scription of  it  which  he  has  heretofore  inserted  in  another 
publication.  44  It  then  existed  in  its  pristine  state,  and  was  a 
small  square  of  tall  and  miserable  houses,  the  very  intestines 
of  which  seemed  turned  inside  out,  to  judge  from  the  old  gar- 
ments and  frippery  that  fluttered  from  every  window.  It  ap- 
peared to  be  a region  of  washerwomen,  and  lines  were  stretched 
about  the  little  square,  on  which  clothes  were  dangling  to  dry. 

4 4 Just  as  we  entered  the  square,  a scuffle  took  place  between 
two  viragoes  about  a disputed  right  to  a washtub,  and  im- 
mediately the  whole  community  was  in  a hubbub.  Heads  in 
mob-caps  popped  out  of  every  window,  and  such  a clamor  of 
tongues  ensued  that  I was  fain  to  stop  my  ears.  Every  amazon 
took  part  with  one  or  other  of  the  disputants,  and  brandished 
her  arms,  dripping  with  soapsuds,  and  fired  away  from  her 
window  as  from  the  embrasure  of  a fortress ; while  the  screams 
of  children  nestled  and  cradled  in  every  procreant  chamber  of 
this  hive,  waking  with  the  noise,  set  up  their  shrill  pipes  to 
swell  the  general  concert.”! 

While  in  these  forlorn  quarters,  suffering  under  extreme  de- 
pression of  spirits,  caused  by  his  failure  at  Surgeons’  Hall,  the 
disappointment  of  his  hopes,  and  his  harsh  collisions  with 
Griffiths,  Goldsmith  wrote  the  following  letter  to  his  brother 
Henry,  some  parts  of  which  are  most  touchingly  mournful. 


* Citizen  of  the  World.  Letter  iv. 
t Tales  of  a Traveller. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


79 


“Dear  Sir:  Your  punctuality  in  answering  a man  whose 
trade  is  writing,  is  more  than  I had  reason  to  expect ; and  yet 
you  see  me  generally  till  a whole  sheet,  which  is  all  the  re- 
compense I can  make  for  being  so  frequently  troublesome. 
The  behavior  of  Mr.  Wells  and  Mr.  Lawder  is  a little  extraor- 
dinary. However,  their  answering  neither  you  nor  me  is  a 
sufficient  indication  of  their  disliking  the  employment  which  1 
assigned  them.  As  their  conduct  is  different  from  what  I had 
expected,  so  I have  made  an  alteration  in  mine.  I shall,  the 
beginning  of  next  month,  send  over  two  hundred  and  fifty 
books,*  which  are  all  that  I fancy  can  be  well  sold  among  you, 
and  I would  have  you  make  some  distinction  in  the  persons 
who  have  subscribed.  The  money,  which  will  amount  to  sixty 
pounds,  may  be  left  with  Mr.  Bradley  as  soon  as  possible.  I 
am  not  certain  but  I shall  quickly  have  occasion  for  it. 

“I  have  met  with  no  disappointment  with  respect  to  my 
East  India  voyage,  nor  are  my  resolutions  altered;  though,  at 
the  same  time,  I must  confess,  it  gives  me  some  pain  to  think 
I am  almost  beginning  the  world  at  the  age  of  thirty-one. 
Though  I never  had  a day’s  sickness  since  I saw  you,  yet  I am 
not  that  strong,  active  man  you  once  knew  me.  You  scarcely 
can  conceive  how  much  eight  years  of  disappointment,  an- 
guish, and  study  have  worn  me  dowTn.  If  I remember  right 
you  are  seven  or  eight  years  older  than  me,  yet  I dare 
venture  to  say,  that,  if  a stranger  saw  us  both,  he  would  pay 
me  the  honors  of  seniority.  Imagine  to  yourself  a pale, 
melancholy  visage,  with  two  great  wrinkles  between  the  eye- 
brows, with  an  eye  disgustingly  severe,  and  a big  wig ; and 

you  may  have  a perfect  picture  of  my  present  appearance.  On 
the  other  hand,  I conceive  you  as  perfectly  sleek  and  healthy, 
passing  many  a happy  day  among  your  own  children  or  those 
who  knew  you  a child. 

“Since  I knew  what  it  was  to  be  a man,  this  is  a pleasure  I 
have  not  known.  I have  passed  my  days  among  a parcel  of 
cool,  designing  beings,  and  have  contracted  all  their  suspicious 
manner  in  my  own  behavior.  I should  actually  be  as  unfit  for 
the  society  of  my  friends  at  home,  as  I detest  that  which  I am 
obliged  to  partake  of  here.  I can  now  neither  partake  of  the 
pleasure  of  a revel,  nor  contribute  to  raise  its  jollity.  I can 
neither  laugh  nor  drink;  have  contracted  a hesitating,  dis- 


* The  Inquiry  into  Polite  Literature.  His  previous  remarks  apply  to  the  sub* 
scription. 


80 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


agreeable  manner  of  speaking,  and  a visage  that  looks  ill- 
nature  itself;  in  short,  I have  thought  myself  into  a settled 
melancholy,  and  an  utter  disgust  of  all  that  life  brings  with  it. 
Whence  this  romantic  turn  that  all  our  family  are  possessed 
with?  Whence  this  love  for  every  place  and  every  country 
hut  that  in  which  we  reside — for  every  occupation  hut  our 
own?  this  desire  of  fortune,  and  yet  this  eagerness  to  dissipate? 
I perceive,  my  dear  sir,  that  I am  at  intervals  for  indulging 
this  splenetic  manner,  and  following  my  own  taste,  regardless 
of  yours. 

‘ ‘ The  reasons  you  have  given  me  for  breeding  up  your  son  a 
scholar  are  judicious  and  convincing;  I should,  however,  be 
glad  to  know  for  what  particular  profession  he  is  designed.  If 
he  be  assiduous  and  divested  of  strong  passions  (for  passions 
in  youth  always  lead  to  pleasure),  he  may  do  very  well  in  your 
College;  for  it  must  be  owned  that  the  industrious  poor  have 
good  encouragement  there,  perhaps  better  than  in  any  other 
in  Europe.  But  if  he  has  ambition,  strong  passions,  and  an 
exquisite  sensibility  of  contempt,  do  not  send  him  there,  unless 
you  have  no  other  trade  for  him  but  your  own.  It  is  impossi- 
ble to  conceive  how  much  may  be  done  by  proper  education  at 
home.  A boy,  for  instance,  who  understands  perfectly  well 
Latin,  French,  arithmetic,  and  the  principles  of  the  civil  law, 
and  can  write  a fine  hand,  has  an  education  that  may  qualify 
him  for  any  undertaking ; and  these  parts  of  learning  should 
be  carefully  inculcated,  let  him  be  designed  for  whatever  call- 
ing he  will. 

‘ ‘ Above  all  things,  let  him  never  touch  a romance  or  novel ; 
these  paint  beauty  in  colors  more  charming  than  nature,  and 
describe  happiness  that  man  never  tastes.  How  delusive,  how 
destructive,  are  those  pictures  of  consummate  bliss!  They 
y teach  the  youthful  mind  to  sigh  after  beauty  and  happiness 
that  never  existed ; to  despise  the  little  good  which  fortune  has 
mixed  in  our  cup,  by  expecting  more  than  she  ever  gave ; and, 
in  general,  take  the  word  of  a man  who  has  seen  the  world, 
and  who  has  studied  human  nature  more  by  experience  than 
precept ; take  my  word  for  it,  I say,  that  books  teach  us  very 
little  of  the  world.  The  greatest  merit  in  a state  of  poverty 
would  only  serve  to  make  the  possessor  ridiculous — may  dis- 
tress, but  cannot  relieve  him.  Frugality,  and  even  avarice,  in 
the  lower  orders  of  mankind,  are  true  ambition.  These  afford 
the  only  ladder  for  the  poor  to  rise  to  preferment.  Teach 
then,  my  dear  sir,  to  your  son,  thrift  and  economy.  Let  his 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


81 


poor  wandering  uncle’s  example  be  placed  before  his  eyes.  I 
had  learned  from  books  to  be  disinterested  and  generous, 
before  I was  taught  from  experience  the  necessity  of  being 
prudent.  I had  contracted  the  habits  and  notions  of  a phi- 
losopher, while  I was  exposing  myself  to  the  approaches  of 
insidious  cunning ; and  often  by  being,  even  with  my  narrow 
finances,  charitable  to  excess,  I forgot  the  rules  of  justice,  and 
placed  myself  in  the  very  situation  of  the  wretch  who  thanked 
me  for  my  bounty.  When  I am  in  the  remotest  part  of  the 
world,  tell  him  this,  and  perhaps  he  may  improve  from  my 
example.  But  I find  myself  again  falling  into  my  gloomy 
habits  of  thinking. 

4 1 My  mother,  I am  informed,  is  almost  blind ; even  though  I 
had  the  utmost  inclination  to  return  home,  under  such  circum- 
stances I could  not,  for  to  behold  her  in  distress  without  a 
capacity  of  relieving  her  from  it,  would  add  much  to  my 
splenetic  habit.  Your  last  letter  was  much  too  short;  it 
should  have  answered  some  queries  I had  made  in  my  former. 
Just  sit  down  as  I do,  and  write  forward  until  you  have  filled 
all  your  paper.  It  requires  no  thought,  at  least  from  the  ease 
with  which  my  own  sentiments  rise  when  they  are  addressed 
to  you.  For,  believe  me,  my  head  has  no  share  in  all  I write ; 
my  heart  dictates  the  whole.  Pray  give  my  love  to  Bob  Bry- 
anton,  and  entreat  him  from  me  not  to  drink.  My  dear  sir, 
give  me  some  account  about  poor  Jenny.*  Yet  her  husband 
loves  her ; if  so,  she  cannot  be  unhappy. 

“ I know  not  whether  I should  tell  you— yet  why  should  I 
conceal  these  trifles,  or,  indeed,  anything  from  you?  There  is 
a book  of  mine  will  be  published  in  a few  days : the  life  of  a 
very  extraordinary  man;  no  less  than  the  great  Voltaire. 
You  know  already  by  the  title  that  it  is  no  more  than  a 
catch-penny.  However,  I spent  but  four  weeks  on  the  whole 
performance,  for  which  I received  twenty  pounds.  When 
published,  I shall  take  some  method  of  conveying  it  to  you, 
unless  you  may  think  it  dear  of  the  postage,  which  may 
amount  to  four  or  five  shillings.  However,  I fear  you  will  not 
find  an  equivalent  of  amusement. 

“Your  last  letter,  I repeat  it,  was  too  short;  you  should 
have  given  me  your  opinion  of  the  design  of  the  heroi-comical 
poem  which  I sent  you.  You  remember  I intended  to  intro- 


* His  sister,  Mrs.  Johnston;  her  marriage,  like  that  of  Mrs.  Hodson,  was  private, 
but  in  pecuniary  matters  much  less  fortunate. 


82 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


duco  the  hero  of  the  poem  as  lying  in  a paltry  alehouse.  You 
may  take  the  following  specimen  of  the  manner,  which  I flat- 
ter  myself  is  quite  original.  The  room  in  which  he  lies  may 
be  described  somewhat  in  this  way: 

“ 4 The  w indow,  patched  with  paper,  lent  a ray 
That  feebly  show’d  the  state  in  which  he  lay; 

The  sanded  lloor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread, 

The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread; 

The  game  of  goose  was  there  exposed  to  view, 

And  the  twelve  rules  the  royal  martyr  drew; 

The  Seasons,  framed  with  listing,  found  a place, 

And  Prussia’s  monarch  show’d  his  lamp  black  face. 

The  morn  was  cold : he  views  with  keen  desire 
A rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a fire; 

An  unpaid  reckoning  on  the  frieze  was  scored, 

And  five  crack’d  teacups  dress’d  the  chimney  board.’ 

“ And  now  imagine,  after  his  soliloquy,  the  landlord  to  make 
his  appearance  in  order  to  dun  him  for  the  reckoning: 

“ 4 Not  with  that  face,  so  servile  and  so  gay, 

That  welcomes  every  stranger  that  can  pay: 

With  sulky  eye  he  smoked  the  patient  man, 

Then  pull’d  his  breeches  tight,  and  thus  began,’  etc.* 

“All  this  is  taken,  you  see,  from  nature.  It  is  a good 
remark  of  Montaigne’s,  that  the  wisest  men  often  have  friends 
with  whom  they  do  not  care  how  much  they  play  the  fool. 
Take  my  present  follies  as  instances  of  my  regard.  Poetry  is 
a much  easier  and  more  agreeable  species  of  composition  than 
prose;  and  could  a man  live  by  it,  it  were  not  unpleasant 
employment  to  be  a poet.  I am  resolved  to  leave  no  space, 
though  I should  fill  it  up  only  by  telling  you,  what  you  very 
well  know  already,  I mean  that  I am  your  most  affectionate 
friend  and  brother, 

“ Oliver  Goldsmith.” 

The  Life  of  Voltaire,  alluded  to  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
preceding  letter,  was  the  literary  job  undertaken  to  satisfy  the 
demands  of  Griffiths.  It  was  to  have  preceded  a translation 
of  the  Henriade,  by  Ned  Purdon,  Goldsmith’s  old  schoolmate, 
now  a Grub  Street  writer,  who  starved  rather  than  lived  by 
the  exercise  of  his  pen,  and  often  tasked  Goldsmith’s  scanty 
means  to  relieve  his  hunger.  His  miserable  career  was 
summed  up  by  our  poet  in  the  following  lines  written  some 


* The  projected  poem,  of  which  the  above  were  specimens,  appears  never  to 
have  been  completed. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  83 

years  after  the  time  we  are  treating  of,  on  hearing  that  he  had 
suddenly  dropped  dead  in  Smithiield : 

“ Here  lies  poor  Ned  Purdon,  from  misery  freed, 

Who  long  was  a bookseller’s  hack; 

He  led  such  a damnable  life  in  this  world, 

I don’t  think  he’ll  wish  to  come  back.” 

The  memoir  and  translation,  though  advertised  to  form  a 
volume,  were  not  published  together ; but  appeared  separately 
in  a magazine. 

As  to  the  heroi-comical  poem,  also,  cited  in  the  foregoing 
letter,  it  appears  to  have  perished  in  embryo.  Had  it  been 
brought  to  maturity  we  should  have  had  further  traits  of 
autobiography ; the  room  already  described  was  probably  his 
own  squalid  quarters  in  Green  Arbor  Court ; and  in  a subse- 
quent morsel  of  the  poem  we  have  the  poet  himself,  under  the 
euphonious  name  of  Scroggin: 

“ Where  the  Red  Lion  peering  o’er  the  way, 

Invites  each  passing  stranger  that  can  pay ; 

Where  Calvert’s  butt  and  Parson’s  black  champaigne 
Regale  the  drabs  and  bloods  of  Drury  Lane: 

There,  in  a lonely  room,  from  bailiffs  snug, 

The  muse  found  Scroggin  stretch’d  beneath  a rug; 

A nightcap  deck’d  his  brows  instead  of  bay, 

A cap  by  night,  a stocking  all  the  day!” 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  this  poetical  conception  was  not 
carried  out;  like  the  author’s  other  writings,  it  might  have 
abounded  with  pictures  of  life  and  touches  of  nature  drawn 
from  his  own  observation  and  experience,  and  mellowed  by 
his  own  humane  and  tolerant  spirit ; and  might  have  been  a 
worthy  companion  or  rather  contrast  to  his  ‘ ‘ Traveller”  and 
“ Deserted  Village,”  and  have  remained  in  the  language  a 
first-rate  specimen  of  the  mock-heroic. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

PUBLICATION  OF  u THE  INQUIRY”— ATTACKED  BY  GRIFFITHS’  RE- 
VIEW— KENRICK  THE  LITERARY  ISHMAELITE— PERIODICAL  LIT- 
ERATURE— GOLDSMITH’S  ESSAYS —GARRICK  AS  A MANAGER— 
SMOLLETT  AND  HIS  SCHEMES  — CHANGE  OF  LODGINGS  — THE 
ROBIN  HOOD  CLUB. 

Toward  the  end  of  March,  1759,  the  treatise  on  which  Gold- 
smith had  laid  so  much  stress,  on  which  he  at  one  time  had 


84 


OLIVER  G OLD  SMITH. 


calculated  to  defray  the  expenses  of  liis  outfit  to  India,  and  to 
which  he  had  adverted  in  his  correspondence  with  Griffiths, 
made  its  appearance.  It  was  published  by  the  Dodsleys,  and 
entitled  “An  Inquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Polite  Learning 
in  Europe.” 

In  the  present  day,  when  the  whole  field  of  contemporary 
literature  is  so  widely  surveyed  and  amply  discussed,  and 
when  the  current  productions  of  every  country  are  constantly 
collated  and  ably  criticised,  a treatise  like  that  of  Goldsmith 
would  bo  considered  as  extremely  limited  and  unsatisfactory ; 
but  at  that  time  it  possessed  novelty  in  its  views  and  wideness 
in  its  scope,  and  being  indued  with  the  peculiar  charm  of  style 
inseparable  from  the  author,  it  commanded  public  attention 
and  a profitable  sale.  As  it  was  the  most  important  pro- 
duction that  had  yet  come  from  Goldsmith’s  pen,  he  was 
anxious  to  have  the  credit  of  it ; yet  it  appeared  without  his 
name  on  the  title-page.  The  authorship,  however,  was  well 
known  throughout  the  world  of  letters,  and  the  author  had 
now  grown  into  sufficient  literary  importance  to  become  an 
object  of  hostility  to  the  underlings  of  the  press.  One  of  the 
most  virulent  attacks  upon  him  was  in  a criticism  on  this 
treatise,  and  appeared  in  the  Monthly  Review , to  which  he 
himself  had  been  recently  a contributor.  It  slandered  him  as 
a man  while  it  decried  him  as  an  author,  and  accused  him, 
by  innuendo,  of  “ laboring  under  the  infamy  of  having,  by  the 
vilest  and  meanest  actions,  forfeited  all  pretensions  to  honor 
and  honesty,  ” and  of  practising  ‘ ‘ those  acts  which  bring  the 
sharper  to  the  cart’s  tail  or  the  pillory.” 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  Review  was  owned  by 
Griffiths  the  bookseller,  with  whom  Goldsmith  had  recently 
had  a misunderstanding.  The  criticism,  therefore,  was  no 
doubt  dictated  by  the  lingerings  of  resentment ; and  the  impu- 
tations upon  Goldsmith’s  character  for  honor  and  honesty, 
and  the  vile  and  mean  actions  hinted  at,  could  only  allude  to 
the  unfortunate  pawning  of  the  clothes.  All  this,  too,  was 
after  Griffiths  had  received  the  affecting  letter  from  Gold- 
smith, drawing  a picture  of  his  poverty  and  perplexities,  and 
after  the  latter  had  made  him  a literary  compensation. 
Griffiths,  in  fact,  was  sensible  of  the  falsehood  and  extrava- 
gance of  the  attack,  and  tried  to  exonerate  himself  by 
declaring  that  the  criticism  was  written  by  a person  in  his 
employ ; but  we  see  no  difference  in  atrocity  between  him  who 
wields  the  knife  and  him  who  hires  the  cut-throat.  It  may  be 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


85 


well,  however,  in  passing,  to  bestow  our  mite  of  notoriety 
upon  the  miscreant  who  launched  the  slander.  He  deserves 
it  for  a long  course  of  dastardly  and  venomous  attacks,  not 
merely  upon  Goldsmith,  but  upon  most  of  the  successful 
authors  of  the  day.  His  name  was  Kenrick.  He  was  origi- 
nally a mechanic,  but,  possessing  some  degree  of  talent  and 
industry,  applied  himself  to  literature  as  a profession.  This 
he  pursued  for  many  years,  and  tried  his  hand  in  every 
department  of  prose  and  poetry ; he  wrote  plays  and  satires, 
philosophical  tracts,  critical  dissertations,  and  works  on  phi- 
lology ; nothing  from  his  pen  ever  rose  to  first-rate  excellence, 
or  gained  him  a popular  name,  though  he  received  from  some 
university  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws.  Dr.  Johnson 
characterized  his  literary  career  in  one  short  sentence.  “Sir, 
he  is  one  of  the  many  who  have  made  themselves  public  with- 
out making  themselves  known.” 

Soured  by  his  own  want  of  success,  jealous  of  the  success  of 
others,  his  natural  irritability  of  temper  increased  by  habits 
of  intemperance,  he  at  length  abandoned  himself  to  the 
practice  of  reviewing,  and  became  one  of  the  Ishmaelites  of 
the  press.  In  this  his  malignant  bitterness  soon  gave  him 
a notoriety  which  his  talents  had  never  been  able  to  attain. 
We  shall  dismiss  him  for  the  present  with  the  following  sketch 
of  him  by  the  hand  of  one  of  his  contemporaries : 

“ Dreaming  of  genius  which  he  never  had, 

Half  wit,  half  fool,  half  critic,  and  half  mad ; 

Seizing,  like  Shirley,  on  the  poet's  lyre, 

With  all  his  rage,  but  not  one  spark  of  fire; 

Eager  for  slaughter,  and  resolved  to  tear 

From  others’  brows  that  wreath  he  must  not  wear — 

Next  Kenrick  came:  all  furious  and  replete 
With  brandy,  malice,  pertness,  and  conceit; 

Unskill’d  in  classic  lore,  through  envy  blind 
To  all  that’s  beauteous,  learned,  or  refined; 

For  faults  alone  behold  the  savage  prowl, 

With  reason’s  offal  glut  his  ravening  soul; 

Pleased  with  his  prey,  its  inmost  blood  he  drinks, 

And  mumbles,  paws,  and  turns  it— till  it  stinks.” 

The  British  press  about  this  time  was  extravagantly  fruitful 
of  periodical  publications.  That  ‘ ‘ oldest  inhabitant,  ” the  Gen- 
tleman's Magazine , almost  coeval  with  St.  John’s  gate  which 
graced  its  title-page,  had  long  been  elbowed  by  magazines  and 
reviews  of  all  kinds;  Johnson’s  Rambler  had  introduced  the 
fashion  of  periodical  essays,  which  he  had  followed  up  in  his 
Adventurer  and  Idler,  Imitations  had  sprung  up  on  every 


86 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


side,  under  every  variety  of  name ; until  British  literature  was 
entirely  overrun  by  a weedy  and  transient  efllorescence.  Many 
of  these  rival  periodicals  choked  each  other  almost  at  the  out- 
set, and  few  of  them  have  escaped  oblivion. 

Goldsmith  wrote  for  some  of  the  most  successful,  such  as 
the  Bee,  the  Busy-Body , and  the  Lady's  Magazine.  His  es- 
says, though  characterized  by  his  delightful  style,  his  pure, 
benevolent  morality,  and  his  mellow,  unobtrusive  humor,  did 
not  produce  equal  effect  at  first  with  more  garish  writings  of 
infinitely  less  value ; they  did  not  ‘‘strike,”  as  it  is  termed; 
but  they  had  that  rare  and  enduring  merit  which  rises  in  esti- 
mation on  every  perusal.  They  gradually  stole  upon  the 
heart  of  the  public,  were  copied  into  numerous  contemporary 
publications,  and  now  they  are  garnered  up  among  the  choice 
productions  of  British  literature. 

In  his  Inquiry  into  the  State  of  Polite  Learning,  Goldsmith 
had  given  offence  to  David  Garrick,  at  that  time  the  autocrat 
of  the  Drama,  and  was  doomed  to  experience  its  effect.  A 
clamor  had  been  raised  against  Garrick  for  exercising  a des- 
potism over  the  stage,  and  bringing  forward  nothing  but  old 
plays  to  the  exclusion  of  original  productions.  Walpole  joined 
in  this  charge.  “Garrick,”  said  he,  “is  treating  the  town  as 
it  deserves  and  likes  to  be  treated ; with  scenes,  fireworks,  and 
his  oicn  writings.  A good  new  play  I never  expect  to  see 
more;  nor  have  seen  since  the  Provoked  Husband,  which 
came  out  when  I was  at  school.”  Goldsmith,  who  was  ex- 
tremely fond  of  the  theatre,  and  felt  the  evils  of  this  system, 
inveighed  in  his  treatise  against  the  wrongs  experienced 
by  authors  at  the  hands  of  managers.  ‘ ‘ Our  poet’s  perform- 
ance,” said  he,  “must  undergo  a process  truly  chemical  before 
it  is  presented  to  the  public.  It  must  be  tried  in  the  manager’s 
fire ; strained  through  a licenser,  suffer  from  repeated  correc- 
tions, till  it  may  be  a mere  caput  mortuum  when  it  arrives 
before  the  public.”  Again.  “ Getting  a play  on  even  in  three 
or  four  years  is  a privilege  reserved  only  for  the  happy  few 
who  have  the  arts  of  courting  the  manager  as  well  as  the  muse ; 
who  have  adulation  to  please  his  vanity,  powerful  patrons  to 
support  their  merit,  or  money  to  indemnify  disappointment. 
Our  Saxon  ancestors  had  but  one  name  for  a wit  and  a witch. 
I will  not  dispute  the  propriety  of  uniting  those  characters 
then ; but  the  man  who  under  present  discouragements  ven- 
tures to  write  for  the  stage,  whatever  claim  he  may  have  to 
the  appellation  of  a wit  at  least  has  no  right  to  be  called  a 


OLIVER  G OLD  SMITH. 


87 


conjurer.”  But  a passage  perhaps  which  touched  more  sensi- 
bly than  ail  the  rest  on  the  sensibilities  of  Garrick,  was  the 
following. 

4 ‘ I have  no  particular  spleen  against  the  fellow  who  sweeps 
the  stage  with  the  besom,  or  the  hero  who  brushes  it  with  his 
train.  It  were  a matter  of  indifference  to  me  whether  our 
heroines  are  in  keeping,  or  our  candle-snuffers  burn  their 
fingers,  did  not  such  make  a great  part  of  public  care  and 
polite  conversation.  Our  actors  assume  all  that  state  off  the 
stage  which  they  do  on  it ; and,  to  use  an  expression  borrowed , 
from  the  green-room,  every  one  is  up  in  his  part.  I am  sorry 
to  say  it,  they  seem  to  forget  their  real  characters.” 

These  strictures  were  considered  by  Garrick  as  intended  for 
himself,  and  they  were  rankling  in  his  mind  when  Goldsmith 
waited  upon  him  and  solicited  his  vote  for  the  vacant  secre- 
taryship of  the  Society  of  Arts,  of  which  the  manager  was  a 
member.  Garrick,  puffed  up  by  his  dramatic  renown  and  his 
intimacy  with  the  great,  and  knowing  Goldsmith  only  by  his 
budding  reputation,  may  not  have  considered  him  of  sufficient 
importance  to  be  conciliated.  In  reply  to  his  solicitations,  he 
observed  that  he  could  hardly  expect  his  friendly  exertions 
after  the  unprovoked  attack  he  had  made  upon  his  manage- 
ment. Goldsmith  replied  that  he  had  indulged  in  no  person- 
alities, and  had  only  spoken  what  he  believed  to  be  the  truth. 
He  made  no  further  apology  nor  application ; failed  to  get  the 
appointment,  and  considered  Garrick  his  enemy.  In  the 
second  edition  of  his  treatise  he  expunged  or  modified  the 
passages  which  had  given  the  manager  offence ; but  though 
the  author  and  actor  became  intimate  in  after  years,  this  false 
step  at  the  outset  of  their  intercourse  was  never  forgotten. 

About  this  time  Goldsmith  engaged  with  Dr.  Smollett,  who 
was  about  to  launch  the  British  Magazine.  Smollett  was  a 
complete  schemer  and  speculator  in  literature,  and  intent  upon 
enterprises  that  had  money  rather  than  reputation  in  view. 
Goldsmith  has  a good-humored  hit  at  this  propensity  in  one 
of  his  papers  in  the  Bee,  in  which  he  represents  Johnson, 
Hume,  and  others  taking  seats  in  the  stage-coach  bound  for 
Fame,  while  Smollett  prefers  that  destined  for  Riches. 

Another  prominent  employer  of  Goldsmith  was  Mr.  John 
Newbery,  who  engaged  him  to  contribute  occasional  essays  to 
a newspaper  entitled  the  Public  Ledger , which  made  its  first 
appearance  on  the  12th  of  January,  1760.  His  most  valuable 
and  characteristic  contributions  to  this  paper  were  his  Chinese 


88 


OLIVER  O OLD  SMITH 


Letters,  subsequently  modified  into  the  Citizen  of  the  World, 
These  lucubrations  attracted  general  attention ; they  were  re- 
printed in  the  various  periodical  publications  of  the  day,  and 
met  with  great  applause.  The  name  of  the  author,  however, 
was  as  yet  but  little  known. 

Being  now  in  easier  circumstances,  and  in  the  receipt  of  fre- 
quent sums  from  the  booksellers,  Goldsmith,  about  the  middle 
of  1700,  emerged  from  his  dismal  abode  in  Green  Arbor  Court, 
and  took  respectable  apartments  in  Wine- Office  Court,  Meet 
Street. 

Still  he  continued  to  look  back  with  considerate  benevolence 
to  the  poor  hostess,  whose  necessities  he  had  relieved  by  pawn- 
ing his  gala  coat,  for  we  are  told  that  ‘ ‘ he  often  supplied  her 
with  food  from  his  own  table,  and  visited  her  frequently  with 
the  sole  purpose  to  be  kind  to  her.” 

He  now  became  a member  of  a debating  club,  called  the 
Robin  Hood,  which  used  to  meet  near  Temple  Bar,  and  in 
which  Burke,  while  yet  a Temple  student,  had  first  tried  his 
powers.  Goldsmith  spoke  here  occasionally,  and  is  recorded 
in  the  Robin  Hood  archives  as  “ a candid  disputant,  with  a 
clear  head  and  an  honest  heart,  though  coming  but  seldom  to 
the  society.”  His  relish  was  for  clubs  of  a more  social,  jovial 
nature,  and  he  was  never  fond  of  argument.  An  amusing 
anecdote  is  told  of  his  first  introduction  to  the  club,  by  Samuel 
Derrick,  an  Irish  acquaintance  of  some  humor.  On  entering, 
Goldsmith  was  struck  with  the  self-important  appearance  of 
the  chairman  ensconced  in  a large  gilt  chair.  “ This,”  said  he, 
“must  be  the  Lord  Chancellor  at  least.”  “No,  no,”  replied 
Derrick,  “he’s  only  master  of  the  rolls” — The  chairman  was  a 
baker . 


CHAPTER  XII. 

NEW  LODGINGS — VISITS  OF  CEREMONY— HANGERS-ON — PILKTNG- 
TON  AND  THE  WHITE  MOUSE— INTRODUCTION  TO  DR.  JOHNSON 
— DAVIES  AND  HIS  BOOKSHOP— PRETTY  MRS.  DAVIES— FOOTE 
AND  HIS  PROJECTS — CRITICISM  OF  THE  CUDGEL. 

In  his  new  lodgings  in  Wine-Office  Court,  Goldsmith  began 
to  receive  visits  of  ceremony,  and  to  entertain  his  literary 
friends.  Among  the  latter  he  now  numbered  several  names  of 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


89 


note,  such  as  Guthrie,  Murphy,  Christopher  Smart,  and  Bick- 
>arstaff.  He  had  also  a numerous  class  of  hangers-on,  the 
small-fry  of  literature ; who,  knowing  his  almost  utter  incapa- 
city to  refuse  a pecuniary  request,  were  apt,  now  that  he  was 
considered  flush,  to  levy  continual  taxes  upon  his  purse. 

Among  others,  one  Pilkington,  an  old  college  acquaintance, 
but  now  a shifting  adventurer,  duped  him  in  the  most  ludi- 
crous manner.  He  called  on  him  with  a face  full  of  perplexi- 
ty. A lady  of  the  first  rank  having  an  extraordinary  fancy 
for  curious  animals,  for  which  she  was  willing  to  give  enor- 
mous sums,  he  had  procured  a couple  of  white  mice  to  he  for- 
warded to  her  from  India.  They  were  actually  on  board  of  a 
ship  in  the  river.  Her  grace  had  been  apprised  of  their 
arrival,  and  was  all  impatience  to  see  them.  Unfortunately, 
he  had  no  cage  to  put  them  in,  nor  clothes  to  appear  in  before 
a lady  of  her  rank.  Two  guineas  would  be  sufficient  for  his 
purpose,  but  where  were  two  guineas  to  be  procured ! 

The  simple  heart  of  Goldsmith  was  touched;  but,  alas!  he 
had  but  half  a guinea  in  his  pocket.  It  was  unfortunate ; but 
after  a pause  his  friend  suggested,  with  some  hesitation,  ‘ ‘ that 
money  might  be  raised  upon  his  watch ; it  would  but  be  the 
loan  of  a few  hours.”  So  said,  so  done;  the  watch  was  de- 
livered to  the  worthy  Mr.  Pilkington  to  be  pledged  at  a neigh- 
boring pawnbroker’s,  but  nothing  farther  was  ever  seen  of 
him,  the  watch,  or  the  white  mice.  The  next  that  Goldsmith 
heard  of  the  poor  shifting  scapegrace,  he  was  on  his  death- 
bed, starving  with  want,  upon  which,  forgetting  or  forgiving 
the  trick  he  had  played  upon  him,  he  sent  him  a guinea.  In- 
deed, he  used  often  to  relate  with  great  humor  the  foregoing 
anecdote  of  his  credulity,  and  was  ultimately  in  some  degree 
indemnified  by  its  suggesting  to  him  the  amusing  little  story 
of  Prince  Bonbennin  and  the  White  Mouse  in  the  Citizen  of  the 
World. 

In  this  year,  Goldsmith  became  personally  acquainted  with 
Dr.  Johnson,  toward  whom  he  was  drawn  by  strong  sympa- 
thies, though  their  natures  were  widely  different.  Both  had 
struggled  from  early  life  with  poverty,  but  had  struggled  in 
different  ways.  Goldsmith,  buoyant,  heedless,  sanguine,  toler- 
ant of  evils  and  easily  pleased,  had  shifted  along  by  any  tem- 
porary expedient ; cast  down  at  every  turn,  but  rising  again 
with  indomitable  good-humor,  and  still  carried  forward  by  his 
talent  at  hoping.  Johnson,  melancholy,  and  hypochondriacal, 
and  prone  to  apprehend  the  worst,  yet  sternly  resolute  to 


90 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITI1. 


battle  with  and  conquer  it,  had  made  his  way  doggedly  and 
gloomily,  but  with  a noble  principle  of  self-reliance  and  a dis' 
regard  of  foreign  aid.  Both  had  been  irregular  at  college, — 
Goldsmith,  as  we  have  shown,  from  the  levity  of  his  nature 
and  his  social  and  convivial  habits;  Johnson,  from  his  acerbity 
and  gloom.  When,  in  after  life,  the  latter  heard  himself 
spoken  of  as  gay  and  frolicsome  at  college,  because  he  had 
joined  in  some  riotous  excesses  there,  uAh,  sir!”  replied  he, 
“I  was  mad  and  violent.  It  was  bitterness  which  they  mis- 
took for  frolic.  I ivas  miserably  poor,  and  I thought  to  fight 
my  way  by  my  literature  and  my  wit . So  I disregarded  all 
power  and  all  authority.” 

Goldsmith’s  poverty  was  never  accompanied  by  bitterness ; 
but  neither  was  it  accompanied  by  the  guardian  pride  which 
kept  Johnson  from  falling  into  the  degrading  shifts  of  poverty. 
Goldsmith  had  an  unfortunate  facility  at  borrowing,  and  help- 
ing himself  along  by  the  contributions  of  his  friends ; no  doubt 
trusting,  in  his  hopeful  way,  of  one  day  making  retribution. 
Johnson  never  hoped,  and  therefore  never  borrowed.  In  his 
sternest  trials  he  proudly  bore  the  ills  he  could  not  master.  In 
his  youth,  when  some  unknown  friend,  seeing  his  shoes  com- 
pletely worn  out,  left  a new  pair  at  his  chamber  door,  he  dis- 
dained to  accept  the  boon,  and  threw  them  away. 

Though  like  Goldsmith  an  immethodical  student,  he  had 
imbibed  deeper  draughts  of  knowledge,  and  made  himself  a 
riper  scholar.  While  Goldsmith’s  happy  constitution  and 
genial  humors  carried  him  abroad  into  sunshine  and  enjoy- 
ment, Johnson’s  physical  infirmities  and  mental  gloom  drove 
him  upon  himself ; to  the  resources  of  reading  and  meditation ; 
threw  a deeper  though  darker  enthusiasm  into  his  mind,  and 
stored  a retentive  memory  with  all  kinds  of  knowledge. 

After  several  years  of  youth  passed  in  the  country  as  usher, 
teacher,  and  an  occasional  writer  for  the  press,  Johnson,  when 
twenty-eight  years  of  age,  came  up  to  London  with  a half- 
written  tragedy  in  his  pocket;  and  David  Garrick,  late  his 
pupil,  and  several  years  his  junior,  as  a companion,  both  poor 
and  penniless,  both,  like  Goldsmith,  seeking  their  fortune  in 
the  metropolis.  “We  rode  and  tied,”  said  Garrick  sportively 
in  after  years  of  prosperity,  when  he  spoke  of  their  humble 
wayfaring.  “I  came  to  London,”  said  Johnson,  “with  two- 
pence halfpenny  in  my  pocket.  ” “Eh,  what’s  that  you  say?” 
cried  Garrick,  “with  twopence  halfpenny  in  your  pocket?* 
“Wrhy,  yes;  I came  with  twopence  halfpenny  in  my  pocket, 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


91 


and  thou,  Davy,  with  hut  three  halfpence  in  thine.”  Nor  was 
there  much  exaggeration  in  the  picture ; for  so  poor  were  they 
in  purse  and  credit,  that  after  their  arrival  they  had,  with  diffi- 
culty, raised  five  pounds,  by  giving  their  joint  note  to  a book- 
seller in  the  Strand. 

Many,  many  years  had  Johnson  gone  on  obscurely  in  London, 
“fighting  his  way  by  his  literature  and  his  wit;”  enduring  all 
the  hardships  and  miseries  of  a Grub  Street  writer;  so  desti- 
tute at  one  time,  that  he  and  Savage  the  poet  had  walked  all 
night  about  St.  James’s  Square,  both  too  poor  to  pay  for  a 
night’s  lodging*  yet  both  full  of  poetry  and  patriotism,  and 
determined  to  stand  by  their  country ; so  shabby  in  dress  at 
another  time,  that  when  he  dined  at  Cave’s,  his  bookseller, 
when  there  was  prosperous  company,  he  could  not  make  his 
appearance  at  table,  but  had  his  dinner  handed  to  him  behind 
a screen. 

Yet  through  all  the  long  and  dreary  struggle,  often  diseased 
in  mind  as  well  as  in  body,  he  had  been  resolutely  self-depen- 
dent, and  proudly  self -respectful ; he  had  fulfilled  his  college 
vow,  he  had  “ fought  his  way  by  his  literature  and  his  wit.” 
His  “Rambler”  and  “ Idler”  had  made  him  the  great  moralist 
of  the  age,  and  his  “Dictionary  and  History  of  the  English 
Language,”  that  stupendous  monument  of  individual  labor, 
had  excited  the  admiration  of  the  learned  world.  He  was  now 
at  the  head  of  intellectual  society;  and  had  become  as  dis- 
tinguished by  his  conversational  as  his  literary  powers.  He 
had  become  as  much  an  autocrat  in  his  sphere  as  his  fellow- 
wayfarer  and  adventurer  Garrick  had  become  of  the  stage, 
and  had  been  humorously  dubbed  by  Smollett,  “The  Great 
Cham  of  Literature.” 

Such  was  Dr.  Johnson,  when  on  the  31st  of  May,  1761,  he 
was  to  make  his  appearance  as  a guest  at  a literary  supper 
given  by  Goldsmith,  to  a numerous  party  at  his  new  lodgings 
in  Wine-Office  Court.  It  was  the  opening  of  their  acquaint- 
ance. Johnson  had  felt  and  acknowledged  the  merit  of  Gold- 
smith as  an  author,  and  been  pleased  by  the  honorable  mention 
made  of  himself  in  the  Bee  and  the  “Chinese  Letters.”  Dr. 
Percy  called  upon  Johnson  to  take  him  to  Goldsmith’s  lodgings ; 
he  found  Johnson  arrayed  with  unusual  care  in  a new  suit  of 
clothes,  a new  hat,  and  a well-powdered  wig;  and  could  not 
but  notice  his  uncommon  spruceness.  “Why,  sir,”  replied 
Johnson,  “I  hear  that  Goldsmith,  who  is  a very  great  sloven, 
justifies  his  disregard  of  cleanliness  and  decency  by  quoting 


92 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


my  practice,  and  I am  desirous  this  night  to  show  him  a better 
example.” 

The  acquaintance  thus  commenced  ripened  into  intimacy  in 
the  course  of  frequent  meetings  at  the  shop  of  Davies,  the 
bookseller,  in  Russell  Street,  Covent  Garden.  As  this  was  one 
of  the  literary  gossiping  places  of  the  day,  especially  to  the 
circle  over  which  Johnson  presided,  it  is  worthy  of  some 
specification.  Mr.  Thomas  Davies,  noted  in  after  times  as  the 
biographer  of  Garrick,  had  originally  been  on  the  stage,  and 
though  a small  man  had  enacted  tyrannical  tragedy,  with  a 
pomp  and  magniloquence  beyond  his  size,  if  we  may  trust  the 
description  given  of  him  by  Churchill  in  the  Rosciad : 

“ Statesman  all  over- -in  plots  famous  grown, 

He  mouths  a sentence  as  curs  mouth  a bone.” 

This  unlucky  sentence  is  said  to  have  crippled  him  in  the 
midst  of  his  tragic  career,  and  ultimately  to  have  driven  him 
from  the  stage.  He  carried  into  the  bookselling  craft  some- 
what of  the  grandiose  manner  of  the  stage,  and  was  prone  to 
be  mouthy  and  magniloquent. 

Churchill  had  intimated,  that  wrhile  on  the  stage  he  was  more 
noted  for  his  pretty  wife  than  his  good  acting: 

“ With  him  came  mighty  Davies;  on  my  life, 

That  fellow  has  a very  pretty  wife.” 

“Pretty  Mrs.  Davies,”  continued  to  be  the  lode-star  of  his 
fortunes.  Her  tea-table  became  almost  as  much  a literary 
lounge  as  her  husband’s  shop.  She  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of 
the  Ursa  Major  of  literature  by  her  winning  ways,  as  she  poured 
out  for  him  cups  without  stint  of  his  favorite  beverage.  In- 
deed it  is  suggested  that  she  was  one  leading  cause  of  his  habit- 
ual resort  to  this  literary  haunt.  Others  were  drawn  thither 
for  the  sake  of  Johnson’s  conversation,  and  thus  it  became  a 
resort  of  many  of  the  notorieties  of  the  day.  Here  might 
occasionally  be  seen  Bennet  Langton,  George  Steevens,  Dr. 
Percy,  celebrated  for  his  ancient  ballads,  and  sometimes  War- 
burton  in  prelatic  state.  Garrick  resorted  to  it  for  a time,  but 
soon  grew  shy  and  suspicious,  declaring  that  most  of  the 
authors  who  frequented  Mr.  Davies’s  shop  went  merely  to 
abuse  him. 

Foote,  the  Aristophanes  of  the  day,  was  a frequent  visitor ; 
his  broad  face  beaming  with  fun  and  waggery,  and  his  satirical 
eye  ever  on  the  lookout  for  characters  and  incidents  for  his 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


93 


farces.  He  was  struck  with  the  odd  habits  and  appearance  of 
Johnson  and  Goldsmith,  now  so  often  brought  together  in 
Davies’s  shop.  He  was  about  to  put  on  the  stage  a farce  called 
The  Orators , intended  as  a hit  at  the  Robin  Hood  debating 
club,  and  resolved  to  show  up  the  two  doctors  in  it  for  the 
entertainment  of  the  town. 

“ What  is  the  common  price  of  an  oak  stick,  sir?”  said 
Johnson  to  Da  vies.  “ Sixpence,”  was  the  reply.  “ Why,  then, 
sir,  give  me  leave  to  send  your  servant  to  purchase  a shilling 
one.  I’ll  have  a double  quantity ; for  I am  told  Foote  means 
to  take  me  off,  as  he  calls  it,  and  I am  determined  the  fellow 
shall  not  do  it  with  impunity.  ” 

Foote  had  no  disposition  to  undergo  the  criticism  of  the  cud- 
gel wielded  by  such  potent  hands,  so  the  farce  of  The  Orators 
appeared  without  the  caricatures  of  the  lexicographer  and  the 
essayist. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

ORIENTAL  PROJECTS— LITERARY  JOBS— THE  CHEROKEE  CHIEFS— 
MERRY  ISLINGTON  AND  THE  WHITE  CONDUIT  HOUSE— LETTERS 
ON  THE  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND— JAMES  BOSWELL— DINNER  OF 
DAVIES— ANECDOTES  OF  JOHNSON  AND  GOLDSMITH. 

Notwithstanding  his  growing  success,  Goldsmith  continued 
to  consider  literature  a mere  makeshift,  and  his  vagrant  im- 
agination teemed  with  schemes  and  plans  of  a grand  but  in- 
definite nature.  One  was  for  visiting  the  East  and  exploring 
the  interior  of  Asia.  He  had,  as  has  been  before  observed,  a 
vague  notion  that  valuable  discoveries  were  to  be  made  there, 
and  many  useful  inventions  in  the  arts  brought  back  to  the 
stock  of  European  knowledge.  “Thus,  in  Siberian  Tartary,” 
observes  he  in  one  of  his  writings,  “the  natives  extract  a 
strong  spirit  from  milk,  which  is  a secret  probably  unknown 
to  the  chemists  of  Europe.  In  the  most  savage  parts  of  In- 
dia they  are  possessed  of  the  secret  of  dying  vegetable  sub- 
stances scarlet,  and  that  of  refining  lead  into  a metal  which, 
for  hardness  and  color,  is  little  inferior  to  silver.” 

Goldsmith  adds  a description  of  the  kind  of  person  suited 
to  such  an  enterprise,  in  which  he  evidently  had  himself  in 
view. 


94 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


“He  should  be  a man  of  philosophical  turn,  one  apt  to 
deduce  consequences  of  general  utility  from  particular  occur- 
rences; neither  swoln  with  pride,  nor  hardened  by  prejudice; 
neither  wedded  to  one  particular  system,  nur  instructed  only 
in  one  particular  science ; neither  wholly  a botanist,  nor  quite 
an  antiquarian;  his  mind  should  be  tinctured  with  miscel- 
laneous knowledge,  and  his  manners  humanized  by  an  inter- 
course with  men.  He  should  be  in  some  measure  an  en- 
thusiast to  the  design;  fond  of  travelling,  from  a rapid 
imagination  and  an  innate  love  of  change;  furnished  with 
a body  capable  of  sustaining  every  fatigue,  and  a heart 
not  easily  terrified  at  danger.” 

In  1761,  when  Lord  Bute  became  prime  minister  on  the 
accession  of  George  the  Third,  Goldsmith  drew  up  a me- 
morial on  the  subject,  suggesting  the  advantages  to  be  derived 
from  a mission  to  those  countries  solely  for  useful  and 
scientific  purposes ; and,  the  better  to  insure  success,  he 
preceded  his  application  to  the  government  by  an  ingenious 
essay  to  the  same  effect  in  the  Public  Ledger. 

His  memorial  and  his  essay  were  fruitless,  his  project  most 
probably  being  deemed  the  dream  of  a visionary.  Still  it 
continued  to  haunt  his  mind,  and  he  would  often  talk  of 
making  an  expedition  to  Aleppo  some  time  or  other,  when 
his  means  were  greater,  to  inquire  into  the  arts  peculiar 
to  the  East,  and  to  bring  home  such  as  might  be  valuable. 
Johnson,  who  knew  how  little  poor  Goldsmith  was  fitted  by 
scientific  lore  for  this  favorite  scheme  of  his  fancy,  scoffed  at 
the  project  when  it  was  mentioned  to  him.  “Of  ail  men,” 
said  he,  1 ‘ Goldsmith  is  the  most  unfit  to  go  out  upon  such  an 
inquiry,  for  he  is  utterly  ignorant  of  such  arts  as  we  already 
possess,  and,  consequently,  could  not  know  what  would  be 
accessions  to  our  present  stock  of  mechanical  knowledge.  Sir, 
he  would  bring  home  a grinding  barrow,  which  you  see  in 
every  street  in  London,  and  think  that  he  had  furnished  a 
wonderful  improvement.” 

His  connection  with  Newbery  the  bookseller  now  led  him 
into  a variety  of  temporary  jobs,  such  as  a pamphlet  on  the 
Cock-lane  Ghost,  a Life  of  Beau  Nash,  the  famous  Master  of 
Ceremonies  at  Bath,  etc. ; one  of  the  best  things  for  his  fame, 
however,  was  the  remodelling  and  republication  of  his  Chinese 
Letters  under  the  title  of  “ The  Citizen  of  the  World,”  a work 
which  has  long  since  taken  its  merited  stand  among  the 
classics  of  the  English  language.  “Few  works,”  it  has  been 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


95 


observed  by  one  of  his  biographers,  “ exhibit  a nicer  percep- 
tion, or  more  delicate  delineation  of  life  and  manners.  Wit, 
humor,  and  sentiment  pervade  every  page ; the  vices  and  f ol- 
lies  of  the  day  are  touched  with  the  most  playful  and  diverting 
satire ; and  English  characteristics,  in  endless  variety,  are  hit 
off  with  the  pencil  of  a master.” 

In  seeking  materials  for  his  varied  views  of  life,  he  often 
mingled  in  strange  scenes  and  got  involved  in  whimsical  situa- 
tions. In  the  summer  of  1762  he  was  one  of  the  thousands 
who  went  to  see  the  Cherokee  chiefs,  whom  he  mentions  in 
one  of  his  writings.  The  Indians  made  their  appearance  in 
grand  costume,  hideously  painted  and  besmeared.  In  the 
course  of  the  visit  Goldsmith  made  one  of  the  chiefs  a present, 
who,  in  the  ecstasy  of  his  gratitude,  gave  him  an  embrace 
that  left  his  face  well  bedaubed  with  oil  and  red  ochre. 

Toward  the  close  of  1762  he  removed  to  “ merry  Islington,” 
then  a country  village,  though  now  swallowed  up  in  omni- 
vorous London.  He  went  there  for  the  benefit  of  country  air, 
his  health  being  injured  by  literary  application  and  confine- 
ment, and  to  be  near  his  chief  employer,  Mr.  Newbery,  who 
resided  in  the  Canonbury  House.  In  this  neighborhood  he 
used  to  take  his  solitary  rambles,  sometimes  extending  his 
walks  to  the  gardens  of  the  “ White  Conduit  House,”  so 
famous  among  the  essayists  of  the  last  century.  While  stroll- 
ing one  day  in  these  gardens,  he  met  three  females  of  the 
family  of  a respectable  tradesman  to  whom  he  was  under 
some  obligation.  With  his  prompt  disposition  to  oblige,  he 
conducted  them  about  the  garden,  treated  them  to  tea,  and 
ran  up  a bill  in  the  most  open-handed  manner  imaginable ; it 
was  only  when  he  came  to  pay  that  he  found  himself  in  one  of 
his  old  dilemmas— he  had  not  the  wherewithal  in  his  pocket. 
A scene  of  perplexity  now  took  place  between  him  and  the 
waiter,  in  the  midst  of  which  came  up  some  of  his  acquaint- 
ances, in  whose  eyes  he  wished  to  stand  particularly  well. 
This  completed  his  mortification.  There  was  no  concealing 
the  awkwardness  of  his  position.  The  sneers  of  the  waiter 
revealed  it.  His  acquaintances  amused  themselves  for  some 
time  at  his  expense,  professing  their  inability  to  relieve  him. 
When,  however,  they  had  enjoyed  their  banter,  the  waiter 
was  paid,  and  poor  Goldsmith  enabled  to  convoy  off  the  ladies 
with  flying  colors. 

Among  the  various  productions  thrown  off  by  him  for  the 
booksellers  during  this  growing  period  of  his  reputation,  was  a 


90 


OLIVER  O OLDS  MITE. 


small  work  in  two  volumes,  entitled  “The  History  of  England, 
in  a series  of  Letters  from  a Nobleman  to  his  Son.”  It  was 
digested  from  Hume,  Eapin,  Carte,  and  Kennet.  These 
authors  he  would  read  in  the  morning;  make  a few  notes; 
ramble  with  a friend  into  the  country  about  the  skirts  of 
“merry  Islington;”  return  to  a temperate  dinner  and  cheerful 
evening ; and,  before  going  to  bed,  write  oil  what  had  arranged 
itself  in  his  head  from  the  studies  of  the  morning.  In  thie 
way  he  took  a more  general  view  of  the  subject,  and  wrote  in 
a more  free  and  fluent  style  than  if  he  had  been  mousing  all 
the  time  among  authorities.  The  work,  like  many  others 
written  by  him  in  the  earlier  part  of  his  literary  career,  was 
anonymous.  Some  attributed  it  to  Lord  Chesterfield,  others 
to  Lord  Orrery,  and  others  to  Lord  Lyttleton.  The  latter 
seemed  pleased  to  be  the  putative  father,  and  never  disowned 
the  bantling  thus  laid  at  his  door;  and  well  might  he  have 
been  proud  to  be  considered  capable  of  producing  what  has 
been  well  pronounced  “the  most  finished  and  elegant  sum- 
mary of  English  history  in  the  same  compass  that  has  been  or 
is  likely  to  be  written.” 

The  reputation  of  Goldsmith,  it  will  be  perceived,  grew 
slowly ; he  was  known  and  estimated  by  a few ; but  he  had 
not  those  brilliant  though  fallacious  qualities  which  flash  upon 
the  public,  and  excite  loud  but  transient  applause.  His  works 
were  more  read  than  cited ; and  the  charm  of  style,  for  which 
he  was  especially  noted,  was  more  apt  to  be  felt  than  talked 
about.  He  used  often  to  repine,  in  a half-humorous,  half- 
querulous  manner,  at  his  tardiness  in  gaining  the  laurels 
which  he  felt  to  be  his  due.  “ The  public,”  he  would  exclaim^ 
‘ ‘ will  never  do  me  justice ; whenever  I write  anything,  they 
make  a point  to  know  nothing  about  it.” 

About  the  beginning  of  1763  he  became  acquainted  with  Bos- 
well, wrhose  literary  gossipings  were  destined  to  have  a delete- 
rious effect  upon  his  reputation.  Boswell  was  at  that  time  a 
young  man,  light,  buoyant,  pushing,  and  presumptuous.  He 
had  a morbid  passion  for  mingling  in  the  society  of  men  noted 
for  wit  and  learning,  and  had  just  arrived  from  Scotland,  bent 
upon  making  his  way  into  the  literary  circles  of  the  metropo- 
lis. An  intimacy  with  Dr.  Johnson,  the  great  literary  lumi- 
nary of  the  day,  was  the  crowning  object  of  his  aspiring  and 
somewhat  ludicrous  ambition.  He  expected  to  meet  him  at  a 
dinner  to  which  he  was  invited  at  Davies  the  bookseller’s,  but 
was  disappointed.  Goldsmith  was  present,  but  he  was  not  as 


OLIVER  0 OLD  SMITH. 


91 


yet  sufficiently  renowned  to  excite  the  reverence  of  Boswell. 
u At  this  time,”  says  he  in  his  notes,  “I  think  he  had  published 
nothing  with  his  name,  though  it  was  pretty  generally  under- 
stood that  one  Dr.  Goldsmith  was  the  author  of  ‘ An  Inquiry 
into  the  Present  State  of  Polite  Learning  in  Europe,’  and  of 
4 The  Citizen  of  the  World,’  a series  of  letters  supposed  to  be 
written  from  London  by  a Chinese.” 

A conversation  took  place  at  table  between  Goldsmith  and 
Mr.  Bobert  Dodsley,  compiler  of  the  well-known  collection  of 
modern  poetry,  as  to  the  merits  of  the  current  poetry  of  the 
day.  Goldsmith  declared  there  was  none  of  superior  merit. 
Dodsley  cited  his  own  collection  in  proof  of  the  contrary.  “It 
is  true,”  said  he,  “we  can  boast  of  no  palaces  nowadays,  like 
Dryden’s  Ode  to  St.  Cecilia’s  Day,  but  we  have  villages  com- 
posed of  very  pretty  houses.  ” Goldsmith,  however,  maintained 
that  there  was  nothing  above  mediocrity,  an  opinion  in  which 
Johnson,  to  whom  it  was  repeated,  concurred,  and  with  reason, 
for  the  era  was  one  of  the  dead  levels  of  British  poetry. 

Boswell  has  made  no  note  of  this  conversation ; he  was  a 
Unitarian  in  his  literary  devotion,  and  disposed  to  worship  none 
but  Johnson.  Little  Davies  endeavored  to  console  him  for  his 
disappointment,  and  to  stay  the  stomach  of  his  curiosity,  by 
giving  him  imitations  of  the  great  lexicographer ; mouthing  his 
words,  rolling  his  head,  and  assuming  as  ponderous  a manner 
as  his  petty  person  would  permit.  Boswell  was  shortly  after- 
ward made  happy  by  an  introduction  to  Johnson,  of  whom  he 
became  the  obsequious  satellite.  From  him  he  likewise  im- 
bibed a more  favorable  opinion  of  Goldsmith’s  merits,  though 
he  was  fain  to  consider  them  derived  in  a great  measure  from 
his  Magnus  Apollo.  “He  had  sagacity  enough,”  says  he,  “to 
cultivate  assiduously  the  acquaintance  of  Johnson,  and  his 
faculties  were  gradually  enlarged  by  the  contemplation  of  such 
a model.  To  me  and  many  others  it  appeared  that  he  studi- 
ously copied  the  manner  of  Johnson,  though,  indeed,  upon  a 
smaller  scale.”  So  on  another  occasion  he  calls  him  “one  of 
the  brightest  ornaments  of  the  Johnsonian  school.”  “His  re- 
spectful attachment  to  Johnson,”  adds  he,  “was  then  at  its 
height;  for  his  own  literary  reputation  had  not  yet  distin- 
guished him  so  much  as  to  excite  a vain  desire  of  competition 
with  his  great  master.” 

What  beautiful  instances  does  the  garrulous  Boswell  give  of 
the  goodness  of  heart  of  Johnson,  and  the  passing  homage  to  it 
by  Goldsmith.  They  were  speaking  of  a Mr.  Levett,  long  an 


98 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


inmate  of  Johnson’s  house  aftd  a dependent  on  his  bounty;  hut 
who,  Boswell  thought,  must  ho  an  irksome  charge  upon  him. 
“He  is  poor  and  honest,”  said  Goldsmith,  “which  is  recom- 
mendation enough  to  Johnson.” 

Boswell  mentioned  another  person  of  a very  had  character, 
and  wondered  at  Johnson’s  kindness  to  him.  “He  is  now  be- 
come miserable,”  said  Goldsmith,  “and  that  insures  the  protec- 
tion of  Johnson.”  Encomiums  like  these  speak  almost  as  much 
for  the  heart  of  him  who  praises  as  of  him  who  is  praised. 

Subsequently,  when  Boswell  had  become  more  intense  in  his 
literary  idolatry,  he  affected  to  undervalue  Goldsmith,  and  a 
lurking  hostility  to  him  is  discernible  throughout  his  writings, 
which  some  have  attributed  to  a silly  spirit  of  jealousy  of  the 
superior  esteem  evinced  for  the  poet  by  Dr.  Johnson.  We 
have  a gleam  of  this  in  his  account  of  the  first  evening  he  spent 
in  company  with  those  two  eminent  authors  at  their  famous 
resort,  the  Mitre  Tavern,  in  Fleet  Street.  This  took  place  on 
the  1st  of  July,  1763.  The  trio  supped  together,  and  passed 
some  time  in  literary  conversation.  On  quitting  the  tavern, 
Johnson,  who  had  now  been  sociably  acquainted  with  Gold- 
smith for  two  years,  and  knew  his  merits,  took  him  with  him 
to  drink  tea  with  his  blind  pensioner,  Miss  Williams,  a high 
privilege  among  his  intimates  and  admirers.  To  Boswell,  a re- 
cent acquaintance  whose  intrusive  sycophancy  had  not  yet 
made  its  way  into  his  confidential  intimacy,  he  gave  no  invita- 
tion. Boswell  felt  it  with  all  the  jealousy  of  a little  mind. 
“ Dr.  Goldsmith,”  says  he,  in  his  memoirs,  “ being  a privileged 
man,  went  with  him,  strutting  away,  and  calling  to  me  with 
an  air  of  superiority,  like  that  of  an  esoteric  over  an  exoteric 
disciple  of  a sage  of  antiquity,  ‘ I go  to  Miss  Williams.’  I con- 
fess I then  envied  him  this  mighty  privilege,  of  which  he 
seemed  to  be  so  proud ; but  it  was  not  long  before  I obtained 
the  same  mark  of  distinction.” 

Obtained ! but  how  ? not  like  Goldsmith,  by  the  force  of  un- 
pretending but  congenial  merit,  but  by  a course  of  the  most 
pushing,  contriving,  and  spaniel-like  subserviency.  Really, 
the  ambition  of  the  man  to  illustrate  his  mental  insignificance, 
by  continually  placing  himself  in  juxtaposition  with  the  great 
lexicographer,  has  something  in  it  perfectly  ludicrous.  Never, 
since  the  days  of  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza,  has  there 
been  presented  to  the  world  a more  whimsically  contrasted 
pair  of  associates  than  Johnson  and  Boswell. 

“Who  is  this  Scotch  cur  at  Johnson’s  heels?”  asked  some 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


99 


one  when  Boswell  had  worked  his  way  into  incessant  com- 
panionship. “He  is  not  a cur,”  replied  Goldsmith,  “you  are 
too  severe;  he  is  only  a bur.  Tom  Davies  flung  him  at  John- 
son in  sport,  and  he  has  the  faculty  of  sticking.” 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

HOGARTH  A VISITOR  AT  ISLINGTON— HIS  CHARACTER— STREET 
STUDIES— SYMPATHIES  BETWEEN  AUTHORS  AND  PAINTERS — SIR 
JOSHUA  REYNOLDS— HIS  CHARACTER — HIS  DINNERS— THE  LITER- 
ARY CLUB— ITS  MEMBERS— JOHNSON’S  REVELS  WITH  LANKEY 
AND  BEAU— GOLDSMITH  AT  THE  CLUB. 

Among  the  intimates  who  used  to  visit  the  poet  occasionally 
in  his  retreat  at  Islington,  was  Hogarth  the  painter.  Gold- 
smith had  spoken  well  of  him  in  his  essays  in  the  Public 
Ledger , and  this  formed  the  first  link  in  their  friendship.  He 
was  at  this  time  upward  of  sixty  years  of  age,  and  is  described 
as  a stout,  active,  bustling  little  man,  in  a sky-blue  coat,  satiri- 
cal and.  dogmatic,  yet  full  of  real  benevolence  and  the  love  of 
human  nature.  He  was  the  moralist  and  philosopher  of  the 
pencil ; like  Goldsmith  he  had  sounded  the  depth  of  vice  and 
misery,  without  being  polluted  by  them ; and  though  his  pic- 
turings  had  not  the  pervading  amenity  of  those  of  the  essayist, 
and  dwelt  more  on  the  crimes  and  vices  than  the  follies  and 
humors  of  mankind,  yet  they  were  all  calculated,  in  like  man- 
ner, to  fill  the  mind  with  instruction  and  precept,  and  to  make 
the  heart  better. 

Hogarth  does  not  appear  to  have  had  much  of  the  rural  feel- 
ing with  which  Goldsmith  was  so  amply  endowed,  and  may 
not  have  accompanied  him  in  his  strolls  about  hedges  and 
green  lanes ; but  he  was  a fit  companion  with  whom  to  ex- 
plore the  mazes  of  London,  in  which  he  was  continually  on 
the  look-out  for  character  and  incident.  One  of  Hogarth’s 
admirers  speaks  of  having  come  upon  him  in  Castle  Street, 
engaged  in  one  of  his  street  studies,  watching  two  boys  who 
were  quarrelling ; patting  one  on  the  back  who  flinched,  and 
endeavoring  to  spirit  him  up  to  a fresh  encounter.  “At  him 
again ! D — him,  if  I would  take  it  of  him ! at  him  again !” 

A frail  memorial  of  this  intimacy  between  the  painter  and 
the  poet  exists  in  a portrait  in  oil,  called  “Goldsmith’s  Host- 


100 


OLIVER  GO  LB  SMITE. 


ess.  ” It  is  supposed  to  have  been  painted  by  Hogarth  in  th^ 
course  of  his  visits  to  Islington,  and  given  by  him  to  the  poet 
as  a means  of  paying  his  landlady.  There  are  no  friendships 
among  men  of  talents  more  likely  to  be  sincere  than  those  be* 
tween  painters  and  poets.  Possessed  of  the  same  qualities  of 
mind,  governed  by  the  same  principles  of  taste  and  natural 
laws  of  grace  and  beauty,  but  applying  them  to  different  yet 
mutually  illustrative  arts,  they  are  constantly  in  sympathy  and 
never  in  collision  with  each  other. 

A still  more  congenial  intimacy  of  the  kind  was  that  con- 
tracted by  Goldsmith  with  Mr.  afterward  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds. The  latter  was  now  about  forty  years  of  age,  a few 
years  older  than  the  poet,  whom  he  charmed  by  the  blandness 
and  benignity  of  his  manners,  and  the  nobleness  and  generos- 
ity of  his  disposition,  as  much  as  he  did  by  the  graces  of  his 
pencil  and  the  magic  of  his  coloring.  They  were  men  of  kin- 
dred genius,  excelling  in  corresponding  qualities  of  their  sev- 
eral arts,  for  style  in  writing  is  what  color  is  in  painting ; both 
are  innate  endowments,  and  equally  magical  in  their  effects. 
Certain  graces  and  harmonies  of  both  may  be  acquired  by  dili- 
gent study  and  imitation,  but  only  in  a limited  degree ; where- 
as by  their  natural  possessors  they  are  exercised  spontaneous- 
ly, almost  unconsciously,  and  with  ever-varying  fascination. 
Reynolds  soon  understood  and  appreciated  the  merits  of  Gold* 
smith,  and  a sincere  and  lasting  friendship  ensued  between 
them. 

At  Reynolds’s  house  Goldsmith  mingled  in  a higher  range  of 
company  than  he  had  been  accustomed  to.  The  fame  of  this 
celebrated  artist,  and  his  amenity  of  manners,  were  gathering 
round  him  men  of  talents  of  all  kinds,  and  the  increasing  afflu- 
ence of  his  circumstances  enabled  him  to  give  full  indulgence 
to  his  hospitable  disposition.  Poor  Goldsmith  had  not  yet, 
like  Dr.  Johnson,  acquired  reputation  enough  to  atone  for  his 
external  defects  and  his  want  of  the  air  of  good  society.  Miss 
Reynolds  used  to  inveigh  against  his  personal  appearance, 
which  gave  her  the  idea,  she  said,  of  a low  mechanic,  a jour- 
neyman tailor.  One  evening  at  a large  supper  party,  being 
called  upon  to  give  as  a toast,  the  ugliest  man  she  knew,  she 
gave  Dr.  Goldsmith,  upon  which  a lady  who  sat  opposite,  and 
whom  she  had  never  met  before,  shook  hands  with  her  across 
the  table,  and  “ hoped  to  become  better  acquainted.” 

We  have  a graphic  and  amusing  picture  of  Reynolds’s  hos- 
pitable but  motley  establishment,  in  an  account  given  by  a 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


101 


Mr.  Courtenay  to  Sir  James  Mackintosh;  though  it  speaks  of  a 
time  after  Reynolds  had  received  the  honor  of  knighthood. 
“ There  was  something  singular,”  said  he,  “in  the  style  and 
economy  of  Sir  Joshua’s  table  that  contributed  to  pleasantry 
and  good-humor,  a coarse,  inelegant  plenty,  without  any  re- 
gard to  order  and  arrangement.  At  five  o’clock  precisely, 
dinner  was  served,  whether  all  the  invited  guests  were  arrived 
or  not.  Sir  Joshua  was  never  so  fashionably  ill-bred  as  to 
wait  an  hour  perhaps  for  two  or  three  persons  of  rank  or  title, 
and  put  the  rest  of  the  company  out  of  humor  by  this  invidi- 
ous distinction.  His  invitations,  however,  did  not  regulate 
the  number  of  his  guests.  Many  dropped  in  uninvited.  A 
table  prepared  for  seven  or  eight  was  often  compelled  to  con- 
tain fifteen  or  sixteen.  There  was  a consequent  deficiency 
of  knives,  forks,  plates,  and  glasses.  The  attendance  was 
in  the  same  style,  and  those  who  were  knowing  in  the  ways 
of  the  house  took  care  on  sitting  down  to  call  instantly  for 
beer,  bread,  or  wine,  that  they  might  secure  a supply  before 
the  first  course  was  over.  He  was  once  prevailed  on  to  fur- 
nish the  table  with  decanters  and  glasses  at  dinner,  to  save 
time  and  prevent  confusion.  These  gradually  were  demolished 
in  the  course  of  service,  and  were  never  replaced.  These  tri- 
fling embarrassments,  however,  only  served  to  enhance  the  hi- 
larity and  singular  pleasure  of  the  entertainment.  The  wine, 
cookery  and  dishes  were  but  little  attended  to ; nor  was  the 
fish  or  venison  ever  talked  of  or  recommended.  Amid  this 
convivial  animated  bustle  among  his  guests,  our  host  sat  per- 
fectly composed;  always  attentive  to  what  was  said,  never 
minding  what  was  ate  or  drank,  but  left  every  one  at  perfect 
liberty  to  scramble  for  himself. 

Out  of  this  casual  but  frequent  meeting  of  men  of  talent  at 
this  hospitable  board  rose  that  association  of  wits,  authors, 
scholars,  and  statesmen,  renowned  as  the  Literary  Club.  Rey- 
nolds was  the  first  to  propose  a regular  association  of  the  kind, 
and  was  eagerly  seconded  by  Johnson,  who  proposed  as  a 
model  a club  which  he  had  formed  many  years  previously  in 
Ivy  Lane,  but  which  was  now  extinct.  Like  that  club  the 
number  of  members  was  limited  to  nine.  They  were  to  meet 
and  sup  together  once  a week,  on  Monday  night,  at  the  Turk’s 
Head  on  Gerard  Street,  Soho,  and  two  members  were  to  con- 
stitute a meeting.  It  took  a regular  form  in  the  year  1764,  but 
did  not  receive  its  literary  appellation  until  several  years  after* 
ward, 


102 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Tho  original  members  were  Reynolds,  Johnson,  Burke,  Dr. 
Nugent,  Bennet  Langton,  Topham  Beauclerc,  Chamier,  Haw- 
kins,  and  Goldsmith ; and  here  a few  words  concerning  some 
of  the  members  may  be  acceptable.  Burke  was  at  that  time 
about  thirty-three  years  of  age;  he  had  mingled  a little  in 
politics,  and  been  Under  Secretary  to  Hamilton  at  Dublin,  but 
was  again  a writer  for  the  booksellers,  and  as  yet  but  in  the 
dawning  of  his  fame.  Dr.  Nugent  was  his  father-in-law,  a 
Roman  Catholic,  and  a physician  of  talent  and  instruction. 
Mr.  afterward  Sir  John  Hawkins  was  admitted  into  this  asso- 
ciation from  having  been  a member  of  Johnson’s  Ivy  Lane 
club.  Originally  an  attorney,  he  had  retired  from  the  prac- 
tice of  the  law,  in  consequence  of  a large  fortune  which  fell 
to  him  in  right  of  his  wife,  and  was  now  a Middlesex  magis- 
trate. He  was,  moreover,  a dabbler  in  literature  and  music, 
and  was  actually  engaged  on  a history  of  music,  which  he 
subseuqently  published  in  five  ponderous  volumes.  To  him 
we  are  also  indebted  for  a biography  of  Johnson,  which  ap- 
peared after  the  death  of  that  eminent  man.  Hawkins  was 
as  mean  and  parsimonious  as  he  was  pompous  and  conceited. 
He  forbore  to  partake  of  the  suppers  at  the  club,  and  begged 
therefore  to  be  excused  from  paying  his  share  of  the  reckon- 
ing. “ And  was  he  excused?”  asked  Dr.  Burney  of  Johnson. 
“ Oh  yes,  for  no  man  is  angry  at  another  for  being  inferior  to 
himself.  We  all  scorned  him  and  admitted  his  plea.  Yet  I 
really  believe  him  to  be  an  honest  man  at  bottom,  though  to 
be  sure  he  is  penurious,  and  he  is  mean,  and  it  must  be  owned 
he  has  a tendency  to  savageness.”  He  did  not  remain  above 
two  or  three  years  in  the  club ; being  in  a manner  elbowed  out 
in  consequence  of  his  rudeness  to  Burke. 

Mr.  Anthony  Chamier  was  secretary  in  the  War  Office,  and 
a friend  of  Beauclerc,  by  whom  he  was  proposed.  We 
have  left  our  mention  of  Bennet  Langton  and  Topham  Beau- 
clerc until  the  last,  because  we  have  most  to  say  about  them. 
They  were  doubtless  induced  to  join  the  club  through  their 
devotion  to  Johnson,  and  the  intimacy  of  these  two  very 
young  and  aristocratic  young  men  with  the  stern  and  some- 
what melancholy  moralist  is  among  the  curiosities  of  literature. 

Bennet  Langton  was  of  an  ancient  family,  who  held  their 
ancestral  estate  of  Langton  in  Lincolnshire,  a great  title  to 
respect  with  Johnson.  u Langton,  sir,”  he  would  say,  “ has  a 
grant  of  free  warren  from  Henry  the  Second;  and  Cardinal 
Stephen  Langton,  m King  John's  mgn,  was  of  this  family*” 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


103 


Langton  was  of  a mild,  contemplative,  enthusiastic  nature. 
When  but  eighteen  years  of  age  he  was  so  delighted  with 
reading  Johnson’s  “Rambler,”  that  he  came  to  London  chiefly 
with  a view  to  obtain  an  introduction  to  the  author.  Bos- 
well gives  us  an  account  of  his  first  interview,  which  took 
place  in  the  morning.  It  is  not  often  that  the  personal  ap- 
pearance of  an  author  agrees  with  the  preconceived  ideas  of 
his  admirer.  Langton,  from  perusing  the  writings  of  John- 
son, expected  to  find  him  a decent,  well-dressed,  in  short  a 
remarkably  decorous  philosopher.  Instead  of  which,  down 
from  his  bedchamber  about  noon,  came,  as  newly  risen,  a 
large  uncouth  figure,  with  a little  dark  wig  which  scarcely 
covered  his  head,  and  his  clothes  hanging  loose  about  him. 
But  his  conversation  was  so  rich,  so  animated,  and  so  forci- 
ble, and  his  religious  and  political  notions  so  congenial  with 
those  in  which  Langton  had  been  educated,  that  he  conceived 
for  him  that  veneration  and  attachment  which  he  ever  pre- 
nerved. 

Langton  went  to  pursue  his  studies  at  Trinity  College,  Ox- 
ford, where  Johnson  saw  much  of  him  during  a visit  which 
he  paid  to  the  university.  He  found  him  in  close  intimacy 
with  Topham  Beauclerc,  a youth  two  years  older  than  him- 
self, very  gay  and  dissipated,  and  wondered  what  sympathies 
could  draw  two  young  men  together  of  such  opposite  char- 
acters. On  becoming  acquainted  with  Beauclerc  he  found 
that,  rake  though  he  was,  he  possessed  an  ardent  ]ove  of  lite- 
rature, an  acute  understanding,  polished  wit,  innate  gentility 
and  high  aristocratic  breeding.  He  was,  morever,  the  only 
son  of  Lord  Sidney  Beauclerc  and  grandson  of  the  Duke  of 
St.  Albans,  and  was  thought  in  some  particulars  to  have  a 
resemblance  to  Charles  the  Second.  These  were  high  recom- 
mendations with  Johnson,  and  when  the  youth  testified  a 
profound  respect  for  him  and  an  ardent  admiration  of  his 
talents  the  conquest  was  complete,  so  that  in  a “ short  time,  ’’ 
says  Boswell,  “the  moral  pious  Johnson  and  the  gay  dissi- 
pated Beauclerc  were  companions.  ” 

The  intimacy  begun  in  college  chambers  was  continued 
when  the  youths  came  to  town  during  the  vacations.  The  un- 
couth, unwieldy  moralist  was  flattered  at  finding  himself  an 
object  of  idolatry  to  two  high-born,  high-bred,  aristocratic 
young  men,  and  throwing  gravity  aside,  was  ready  to  join  in 
their  vagaries  and  play  the  part  of  a “young  man  upon 
town/’  Such  least  w the  picture  given  of  Ml*!  W Bosw# 


104 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


on  one  occasion  when  Beauclerc  and  Langton  having  supped 
together  at  a tavern  determined  to  give  Johnson  a rouse  at 
three  o’clock  in  the  morning.  They  accordingly  rapped  vio- 
lently at  the  door  of  his  chambers  in  the  Temple.  The  in- 
dignant sage  sallied  forth  in  his  shirt,  poker  in  hand,  and  a 
little  black  wig  on  the  top  of  his  head,  instead  of  helmet; 
prepared  to  wreak  vengeance  on  the  assailants  of  his  castle ; 
but  when  his  two  young  friends,  Lankey  and  Beau,  as  he 
used  to  call  them,  presented  themselves,  summoning  him  forth 
to  a morning  ramble,  his  whole  manner  changed.  “What, 
is  it  you,  ye  dogs?”  cried  he.  “Faith,  I’ll  have  a frisk  with 
you !” 

So  said  so  done.  They  sallied  forth  together  into  Covent 
Garden;  figured  among  the  green  grocers  and  fruit  women, 
just  come  in  from  the  country  with  their  hampers ; repaired 
to  a neighboring  tavern,  where  Johnson  brewed  a bowl  of 
bishop , a favorito  beverage  with  him,  grew  merry  over  his 
cups,  and  anathematized  sleep  in  two  lines  from  Lord  Lans- 
downe’s  drinking  song : 

“ Short,  very  short,  be  then  thy  reign, 

For  I’m  in  haste  to  laugh  and  drink  again.” 

They  then  took  boat  again,  rowed  to  Billingsgate,  and  John- 
son and  Beauclerc  determined,  like  “mad  wags,”  to  “keep 
it  up”  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  Langton,  however,  the  most 
sober-minded  of  the  three,  pleaded  an  engagement  to  break- 
fast with  some  young  ladies;  whereupon  the  great  moralist 
reproached  him  with  4 4 leaving  his  social  friends  to  go  and 
sit  with  a set  of  wretched  unidecCd  girls.” 

This  madcap  freak  of  the  great  lexicographer  made  a sensa- 
tion, as  may  well  be  supposed,  among  his  intimates.  4 4 1 heard 
of  your  frolic  t’other  night,”  said  Garrick  to  him;  44  you’ll  be 
in  the  Chronicle .”  He  uttered  worse  forebodings  to  others. 
44 1 shall  have  my  old  friend  to  bail  out  of  the  round-house,” 
said  he.  Johnson,  however,  valued  himself  upon  having  thus 
enacted  a chapter  in  the  “Bake’s  Progress,”  and  crowed  over 
Garrick  on  the  occasion.  “ He  durst  not  do  such  a thing!” 
chadded  he,  44  his  wife  would  not  let  him !” 

When  these  two  young  men  entered  the  club,  Langton  was 
about  twenty-two,  and  Beauclerc  about  twenty-four  years  of 
age,  and  both  were  launched  on  London  life.  Langton,  how*, 
aver,  was  still  the  mild,  enthusiastic  scholar,  steeped  to  the 
Ups  with  fine  conversational  powers,  and  an  invaluable  talent 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


105 


for  listening.  He  was  upward  of  six  feet  high,  and  very  spare. 
“Oh!  that  we  could  sketch  him,”  exclaims  Miss  Hawkins,  in 
her  Memoirs,  “with  his  mild  countenance,  his  elegant  features, 
and  his  sweet  smile,  sitting  with  one  leg  twisted  round  the 
other,  as  if  fearing  to  occupy  more  space  than  was  equitable ; 
his  person  inclining  forward,  as  if  wanting  strength  to  support 
his  weight,  and  his  arms  crossed  over  his  bosom,  or  his  hands 
locked  together  on  his  knee.”  Beauclerc,  on  such  occasions, 
sportively  compared  him  to  a stork  in  Raphael’s  Cartoons, 
standing  on  one  leg.  Beauclerc  was  more  4 4 a man  upon  town,  ” 
a lounger  in  St.  James’s  Street,  an  associate  with  George  Selwyn, 
with  Walpole,  and  other  aristocratic  wits;  a man  of  fashion  at 
court;  a casual  frequenter  of  the  gaming-table ; yet  with  all 
this,  he  alternated  in  the  easiest  and  happiest  manner  the 
scholar  and  the  man  of  letters ; lounged  into  the  club  with  the 
most  perfect  self-possession,  bringing  with  him  the  careless 
grace  and  polished  wit  of  high-bred  society,  but  making  him- 
self cordially  at  home  among  his  learned  fellow-members. 

The  gay  yet  lettered  rake  maintained  his  sway  over  Johnson, 
who  was  fascinated  by  that  air  of  the  world,  that  ineffable 
tone  of  good  society  in  which  he  felt  himself  deficient,  espe- 
cially as  the  possessor  of  it  always  paid  homage  to  his  superior 
talent.  4 4 Beauclerc,  ” he  would  say,  using  a quotation  from 
Pope,  4 4 has  a love  of  folly,  but  a scorn  of  fools ; everything  he 
does  shows  the  one,  and  everything  he  says  the  other.  ” Beau- 
clerc delighted  in  rallying  the  stern  moralist  of  whom  others 
stood  in  awe,  and  no  one,  according  to  Boswell,  could  take 
equal  liberty  with  him  with  impunity.  Johnson,  it  is  well 
known,  was  often  shabby  and  negligent  in  his  dress,  and  not 
over-cleanly  in  his  person.  On  receiving  a pension  from  the 
crown,  his  friends  vied  with  each  other  in  respectful  congratu- 
lations. Beauclerc  simply  scanned  his  person  with  a whim- 
sical glance,  and  hoped  that,  like  Falstaff,  44  he’d  in  future 
purge  and  live  cleanly  like  a gentleman.”  Johnson  took  the 
hint  with  unexpected  good  humor,  and  profited  by  it. 

Still  Beauclerc’s  satirical  vein,  which  darted  shafts  on  every 
side,  was  not  always  tolerated  by  Johnson.  44  Sir,”  said  he  on 
one  occasion,  44  you  never  open  your  mouth  but  with  intention 
to  give  pain ; and  you  have  often  given  me  pain,  not  from  the 
power  of  what  you  have  said,  but  from  seeing  your  inten- 
tion. ” 

When  it  was  first  proposed  to  enroll  Goldsmith  among  the 
members  of  this  association,  there  seems  to  have  been  some 


106 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


demur;  at  least  so  says  the  pompous  Hawkins.  “ As  he  wrote 
for  the  booksellers,  we  of  the  club  looked  on  him  as  a mere 
literary  drudge,  equal  to  the  task  of  compiling  and  translating, 
but  little  capable  of  original  and  still  less  of  poetical  composi- 
tion.” 

Even  for  some  time  after  his  admission,  he  continued  to  be 
regarded  in  a dubious  light  by  some  of  the  members.  Johnson 
and  Reynolds,  of  course,  were  well  aware  of  his  merits,  nor 
was  Burke  a stranger  to  them ; but  to  the  others  he  was  as  yet 
a sealed  book,  and  the  outside  was  not  prepossessing.  His  un- 
gainly person  and  awkward  manners  were  against  him  with 
men  accustomed  to  the  graces  of  society,  and  he  was  not  suffi- 
ciently at  home  to  give  play  to  his  humor  and  to  that  bonho- 
mie which  won  the  hearts  of  all  who  knew  him.  He  felt 
strange  and  out  of  place  in  this  new  sphere ; he  felt  at  times 
the  cool  satirical  eye  of  the  courtly  Beauclerc  scanning  him, 
and  the  more  he  attempted  to  appear  at  his  ease,  the  more 
awkward  he  became. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

JOHNSON  A MONITOR  TO  GOLDSMITH — FINDS  HIM  IN  DISTRESS 
WITH  HIS  LANDLADY — RELIEVED  BY  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 
— THE  ORATORIO— POEM  OF  THE  TRAVELLER— THE  POET  AND 
HIS  DOG — SUCCESS  OF  THE  POEM — ASTONISHMENT  OF  THE 
CLUB — OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  POEM. 

■ Johnson  had  now  become  one  of  Goldsmith’s  best  friends 
and  advisers.  He  knew  all  the  weak  points  of  his  character, 
but  he  knew  also  his  merits ; and  while  he  would  rebuke  him 
like  a child,  and  rail  at  his  errors  and  follies,  he  would  suffer 
no  one  else  to  undervalue  him.  Goldsmith  knew  the  sound- 
ness of  his  judgment  and  his  practical  benevolence,  and  often 
sought  his  counsel  and  aid  amid  the  difficulties  into  which  his 
heedlessness  was  continually  plunging  him. 

“ I received  one  morning,”  says  Johnson,  “a  message  from 
poor  Goldsmith  that  he  was  in  great  distress,  and,  as  it  was 
not  in  his  power  to  come  to  me,  begging  that  I would  come  to 
him  as  soon  as  possible.  I sent  him  a guinea,  and  promised  to 
come  to  him  directly,  T accordingly  went  8$  Boon  as  I we# 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


107 


dressed,  and  found  that  his  landlady  had  arrested  him  for  his 
rent,  at  which  he  was  in  a violent  passion;  I perceived  that 
he  had  already  changed  my  guinea,  and  had  a bottle  of 
Madeira  and  a glass  before  him.  I put  the  cork  into  the 
bottle,  desired  he  would  be  calm,  and  began  to  talk  to  him  of 
the  means  by  which  he  might  be  extricated.  He  then  told  me 
he  had  a novel  ready  for  the  press,  which  he  produced  to  me. 

I looked  into  it  and  saw  its  merit ; told  the  landlady  I should 
soon  return ; and,  having  gone  to  a bookseller,  sold  it  for  sixty . 
pounds.  I brought  Goldsmith  the  money,  and  he  discharged  ‘ 
his  rent,  not  without  rating  his  landlady  in  a high  tone  for 
having  used  him  so  ill.  ” 

The  novel  in  question  was  the  “ Vicar  of  Wakefield;”  the 
bookseller  to  whom  Johnson  sold  it  was  Francis  Newbery, 
nephew  to  John.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  this  captivating 
work,  which  has  obtained  and  preserved  an  almost  unrivalled 
popularity  in  various  languages,  was  so  little  appreciated  by 
die  bookseller,  that  he  kept  it  by  him  for  nearly  two  years  un- 
published ! 

Goldsmith  had,  as  yet,  produced  nothing  of  moment  in 
poetry.  Among  his  literary  jobs,  it  is  true,  was  an  oratorio 
entitled  “ The  Captivity , ” founded  on  the  bondage  of  the  Israel- 
ites in  Babylon.  It  was  one  of  those  unhappy  offsprings  of 
the  muse  ushered  into  existence  amid  the  distortions  of  music. 
Most  of  the  oratorio  has  passed  into  oblivion ; but  the  follow- 
ing song  from  it  will  never  die : 

“ The  wretch  condemned  from  life  to  part, 

Still,  still  on  hope  relies, 

And  every  pang  that  rends  the  heart 
Bids  expectation  rise. 

“ Hope,  like  the  glimmering  taper’s  light, 

Illumes  and  cheers  our  way; 

And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night, 

Emits  a brighter  ray.” 

Goldsmith  distrusted  his  qualifications  to  succeed  in  poetry, 
and  doubted  the  disposition  of  the  public  mind  in  regard  to  it. 

“ I fear,”  said  he,  “ I have  come  too  late  into  the  world;  Pope 
and  other  poets  have  taken  up  the  places  in  the  temple  of 
Fame ; and  as  few  at  any  period  can  possess  poetical  reputa- 
tion, a man  of  genius  can  now  hardly  acquire  it.”  Again,  on 
another  occasion,  he  observes:  “Of  all  kinds  of  ambition,  as 
things  are  now  circumstanced,  perhaps  that  which  pursues 
poetical  fame  is  the  wildest,  What  from  the  increased  refine* 


108 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


ment  of  the  times,  from  the  diversity  of  judgment  produced 
by  opposing  systems  of  criticism,  and  from  the  more  prevalent 
divisions  of  opinion  influenced  by  party,  the  strongest  and  hap- 
piest efforts  can  expect  to  please  but  in  a very  narrow  circle.  ” 

At  this  very  time  he  had  by  him  his  poem  of  “The  Travel- 
ler.” The  plan  of  it,  as  has  already  been  observed,  was  con- 
ceived many  years  before,  during  his  travels  in  Switzerland, 
and  a sketch  of  it  sent  from  that  country  to  his  brother  Henry 
in  Ireland.  The  original  outline  is  said  to  have  embraced  a- 
wider  scope ; but  it  was  probably  contracted  through  diffidence, 
in  the  process  of  finishing  the  parts.  It  had  lain  by  him  for 
several  years  in  a crude  state,  and  it  was  with  extreme  hesita- 
tion and  after  much  revision  that  he  at  length  submitted  it  to 
Dr.  Johnson.  The  frank  and  warm  approbation  of  the  lattei 
encouraged  him  to  finish  it  for  the  press;  and  Dr.  Johnson 
himself  contributed  a fewlines  toward  the  conclusion. 

We  hear  much  about  “poetic  inspiration, ” and  “ the  poet’s 
eye  in  a fine  frenzy  rolling;”  but  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  gives  an 
anecdote  of  Goldsmith  while  engaged  upon  his  poem,  calculated 
to  cure  our  notions  about  the  ardor  of  composition.  Calling 
upon  the  poet  one  day,  he  opened  the  door  without  ceremony, 
and  found  him  in  the  double  occupation  of  turning  a couplet 
and  teaching  a pet  dog  to  sit  upon  his  haunches.  At  one  time 
he  would  glance  his  eye  at  his  desk,  and  at  another  shake  his 
finger  at  the  dog  to  make  him  retain  his  position.  The  last 
lines  on  the  page  were  still  wet ; they  form  a part  of  the  descrip- 
tion of  Italy : 

“ By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguiled, 

The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child.” 


Goldsmith,  with  his  usual  good-humor,  joined  in  the  laugh 
caused  by  his  whimsical  employment,  and  acknowledged  tnat 
his  boyish  sport  with  the  dog  suggested  the  stanza. 

The  poem  was  published  on  the  19th  of  December,  1764,  in  a 
quarto  form,  by  Newbery,  and  was  the  first  of  his  works  to 
which  Goldsmith  prefixed  his  name.  As  a testimony  of  cher- 
ished and  well-merited  affection,  he  dedicated  it  to  his  brother 
Henry.  There  is  an  amusing  affectation  of  indifference  as  to  its 
fate  expressed  in  the  dedication.  “What  reception  a poem 
may  find,”  says  he,  “which  has  neither  abuse,  party,  nor  blank 
verse  to  support  it,  I cannot  tell,  nor  am  I solicitous  to  know.  ” 
The  truth  is,  no  one  was  more  emulous  and  anxious  for  poetiq 
fame;  and  never  was  he  more  anxious  than  in  the  present 


OLIVER  GOLD  SMITH. 


109 


instance,  for  it  was  his  grand  stake.  Dr.  Johnson  aided  the 
launching  of  the  poem  by  a favorable  notice  in  the  Critical 
Revieiv;  other  periodical  works  came  out  in  its  favor.  Borne 
of  the  author’s  friends  complained  that  it  did  not  command  in- 
stant and  wide  popularity ; that  it  was  a poem  to  win,  not  to 
strike ; it  went  on  rapidly  increasing  in  favor ; in  three  months 
a second  edition  was  issued ; shortly  afterward  a third ; then  a 
fourth;  and,  before  the  year  was  out,  the  author  was  pro- 
nounced the  best  poet  of  his  time. 

The  appearance  of  “The  Traveller”  at  once  altered  Gold- 
smith’s intellectual  standing  in  the  estimation  of  society ; but 
its  effect  upon  the  club,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  account 
given  by  Hawkins,  was  most  ludicrous.  They  were  lost  in  as- 
tonishment that  a “newspaper  essayist”  and  “ bookseiler’s 
drudge”  should  have  written  such  a poem.  On  the  evening  of 
its  announcement  to  them  Goldsmith  had  gone  away  early, 
after  “rattling  away  as  usual,”  and  they  knew  not  how  to 
reconcile  his  heedless  garrulity  with  the  serene  beauty,  the 
easy  grace,  the  sound  good  sense,  and  the  occasional  elevation 
of  his  poetry.  They  could  scarcely  believe  that  such  magic 
numbers  had  flowed  from  a man  to  whom  in  general,  says 
Johnson,  “it  was  with  difficulty  they  could  give  a hearing.’ 
“ Well,”  exclaimed  Chamier,  “ I do  believe  he  wrote  this  poem 
himself,  and  let  me  tell  you,  that  is  believing  a great  deal.” 

At  the  next  meeting  of  the  club  Chamier  sounded  the  author 
a little  about  his  poem.  “Mr.  Goldsmith,”  said  he,  “what  do 
you  mean  by  the  last  word  in  the  first  line  of  your  ‘ Traveller, 
‘remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  sloiCf  do  you  mean  tardinesss 
of  locomotion?”  “Yes,”  replied  Goldsmith  inconsiderately, 
being  probably  flurried  at  the  moment.  “ No,  sir,”  interposed 
his  protecting  friend  Johnson,  “you  did  not  mean  tardiness  of 
locomotion ; you  meant  that  sluggishness  of  mind  which  comes 
upon  a man  in  solitude.”  “ Ah,”  exclaimed  Goldsmith,  “ that 
was  what  I meant.”  Chamier  immediately  believed  that  John- 
son himself  had  written  the  line,  and  a rumor  became  pre- 
valent that  he  was  the  author  of  many  of  the  finest  passages. 
This  was  ultimately  set  at  rest  by  Johnson  himself,  who  marked 
with  a pencil  all  the  verses  he  had  contributed,  nine  in  number, 
inserted  toward  the  conclusion,  and  by  no  means  the  best  in 
the  poem.  He  moreover,  with  generous  warmth,  pronounced 
it  the  finest  poem  that  had  appeared  since  the  days  of  Pope. 

But  one  of  the  highest  testimonials  to  the  charm  of  the  poem 
was  given  by  Miss  Reynolds,  who  had  toasted  poor  Goldsmith 


110 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


as  the  ugliest  man  of  her  acquaintance.  Shortly  after  the  ap* 
pearance  of  “The  Traveller,”  Dr.  Johnson  read  it  aloud  from 
beginning  to  end  in  her  presence.  “Well,”  exclaimed  she, 
when  he  had  finished,  “I  never  more  shall  think  Dr.  Gold- 
smith ugly !” 

On  another  occasion,  when  the  merits  of  “The  Traveller” 
wore  discussed  at  Reynolds’s  board,  Langton  declared  “There 
was  not  a bad  line  in  the  poem,  not  one  of  Dry  den’s  careless 
verses.”  “I  was  glad,”  observed  Reynolds,  “to  hear  Charles 
Fox  say  it  was  one  of  the  finest  poems  in  the  English  language.” 
“ Why  were  you  glad  ?”  rejoined  Langton ; “ you  surely  had  no 
doubt  of  this  before.”  ‘No,”  interposed  Johnson,  decisively; 
“the  merit  of  ‘The  Traveller’  is  so  well  established  that  Mr. 
Fox’s  praise  cannot  augment  it,  nor  his  censure  diminish  it.” 

Boswell,  who  was  absent  from  England  at  the  time  of  the 
publication  of  “ The  Traveller,”  was  astonished,  on  his  return, 
to  find  Goldsmith,  whom  he  had  so  much  undervalued,  sud- 
denly elevated  almost  to  a par  with  his  idol.  He  accounted  for 
it  by  concluding  that  much  both  of  the  sentiments  and  expres- 
sion of  the  poem  had  been  derived  from  conversations  with 
Johnson  “He  imitates  you,  sir,”  said  this  incarnation  of 
toadyism.  “Why,  no,  sir,”  replied  Johnson,  “Jack  Hawks- 
worth  is  one  of  my  imitators,  but  not  Goldsmith.  Goldy,  sir, 
has  great  merit.”  “But,  sir,  he  is  much  indebted  to  you  for 
nis  getting  so  high  in  the  public  estimation.”  “Why,  sir,  he 
has,  perhaps,  got  sooner  to  it  by  his  intimacy  with  me.” 

The  poem  went  through  several  editions  in  the  course  of  the 
first  year,  and  received  some  few  additions  and  corrections 
from  the  author’s  pen.  It  produced  a golden  harvest  to  Mr. 
Newbery,  but  all  the  remuneration  on  record,  doled  out  by  his 
niggard  hand  to  the  author,  was  twenty  guineas  ! 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Ill 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

NEW  LODGINGS — JOHNSON’S  COMPLIMENT — A TITLED  PATRON — THE 
POET  AT  NORTHUMBERLAND  HOUSE — HIS  INDEPENDENCE  OF  THE 
GREAT  — THE  COUNTESS  OF  NORTHUMBERLAND  — EDWIN  AND 
ANGELINA — GOSFORD  AND  LORD  CLARE — PUBLICATION  OF  ES- 
SAYS— EVILS  OF  A RISING  REPUTATION  — HANGERS-ON  — JOB 
WRITING  — GOODY  TWO  SHOES — A MEDICAL  CAMPAIGN  — MRS. 
SIDEBOTHAM. 

Goldsmith,  now  that  he  was  rising  in  the  world,  and  becom- 
ing a notoriety,  felt  himself  called  upon  to  improve  his  style 
of  living.  He  accordingly  emerged  from  Wine-Office  Court, 
and  took  chambers  in  the  Temple.  It  is  true  they  were  but 
of  humble  pretensions,  situated  on  what  was  then  the  library 
staircase,  and  it  would  appear  that  he  was  a kind  of  inmate 
with  Jeffs,  the  butler  of  the  society.  Still  he  was  in  the  Tem- 
ple, that  classic  region  rendered  famous  by  the  Spectator  and 
other  essayists,  as  the  abode  of  gay  wits  and  thoughtful  men 
of  letters;  and  which,  with  its  retired  courts  and  embow- 
ered gardens,  in  the  very  heart  of  a noisy  metropolis,  is, 
to  the  quiet-seeking  student  and  author,  an  oasis  freshening 
with  verdure  in  the  midst  of  a desert.  Johnson,  who  had  be- 
come a kind  of  growling  supervisor  of  the  poet’s  affairs,  paid 
him  a visit  soon  after  he  had  installed  himself  in  his  new  quar- 
ters, and  went  prying  about  the  apartment,  in  his  near-sighted 
manner,  examining  everything  minutely.  Goldsmith  was 
fidgeted  by  this  curious  scrutiny,  and  apprehending  a dispo- 
sition to  find  fault,  exclaimed,  with  the  air  of  a man  who  had 
money  in  both  pockets,  “ I shall  soon  be  in  better  chambers 
than  these.”  The  harmless  bravado  drew  a reply  from  John- 
son, which  touched  the  chord  of  proper  pride.  “Nay,  sir,” 
said  he,  “never  mind  that.  Nil  te  queesiveris  extra, ” imply- 
ing that  his  reputation  rendered  him  independent  of  outward 
show.  Happy  would  it  have  been  for  poor  Goldsmith,  could 
he  have  kept  this  consolatory  compliment  perpetually  in  mind, 
and  squared  his  expenses  accordingly. 

Among  the  persons  of  rank  who  were  struck  with  the  merits 
of  “The  Traveller”  was  the  Earl  (afterward  Duke)  of  North- 
umberland. He  procured  several  other  of  Goldsmith’s  writ- 


112 


OLIVER  GOLD  SMITH. 


ings,  the  perusal  of  which  tended  to  elevate  the  author  in  his 
good  opinion,  and  to  gain  for  him  his  good  will.  The  earl  held 
the  office  of  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  and  understanding 
Goldsmith  was  an  Irishman,  was  disposed  to  extend  to  him 
the  patronage  which  his  high  post  afforded.  He  intimated 
the  same  to  his  relative,  Dr.  Percy,  who,  he  found,  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  poet,  and  expressed  a wish  that  the  latter 
should  wait  upon  him.  Here,  then,  was  another  opportunity 
for  Goldsmith  to  better  his  fortune,  had  he  been  knowing  and 
worldly  enough  to  profit  by  it.  Uuluckily  the  path  to  fortune 
lay  through  the  aristocratical  mazes  of  Northumberland  House, 
and  the  poet  blundered  at  the  outset.  The  following  is  the  ac- 
count he  used  to  give  of  his  visit:  “I  dressed  myself  in  the 
best  manner  I could,  and,  after  studying  some  compliments  I 
thought  necessary  on  such  an  occasion,  proceeded  to  North- 
umberland House,  and  acquainted  the  servants  that  I had  par- 
ticular business  with  the  duke.  They  showed  me  into  an  ante- 
chamber, where,  after  waiting  some  time,  a gentleman,  very 
elegantly  dressed,  made  his  appearance;  taking  him  for  the 
duke,  I delivered  all  the  fine  things  I had  composed  in  order 
to  compliment  him  on  the  honor  he  had  done  me ; when,  to 
my  great  astonishment,  he  told  me  I had  mistaken  him  for 
his  master,  who  would  see  me  immediately.  At  that  instant 
the  duke  came  into  the  apartment,  and  I was  so  confounded 
on  the  occasion,  that  I wanted  words  barely  sufficient  to  ex- 
press the  sense  I entertained  of  the  duke’s  politeness,  and 
went  away  exceedingly  chagrined  at  the  blunder  I had  com- 
mitted.” 

Sir  John  Hawkins,  in  his  life  of  Dr.  Johnson,  gives  some 
further  particulars  of  this  visit,  of  which  he  was,  in  part,  a 
witness.  “ Having  one  day,”  says  he,  “a  call  to  make  on  the 
Hlate  Duke,  then  Earl,  of  Northumberland,  I found  Goldsmith 
waiting  for  an  audience  in  an  outer  room ; I asked  him  what 
had  brought  him  there;  he  told  me,  an  invitation  from  his 
lordship.  I made  my  business  as  short  as  I could,  and,  as  a 
reason,  mentioned  that  Dr.  Goldsmith  was  waiting  without. 
The  earl  asked  me  if  I was  acquainted  with  him.  I told  him 
that  I was,  adding  what  I thought  most  likely  to  recommend 
him.  I retired,  and  stayed  in  the  outer  room  to  take  him 
home.  Upon  his  coming  out,  I asked  him  the  result  of  his  con- 
versation. ‘His  lordship,’  said  he,  ‘told  me  he  had  read  my 
poem,  meaning  “The  Traveller,”  and  was  much  delighted 
with  it ; that  he  was  going  to  be  lord-lieutenant  of  Ireland, 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


113 


and  that  hearing  I was  a native  of  that  country,  he  should 
be  glad  to  do  me  any  kindness.’  ‘ And  what  did  you  answer,’ 
said  I,  ‘to  this  gracious  offer?’  4 Why,’  said  he,  ‘I  could  say 
nothing  but  that  I had  a brother  there,  a clergyman,  that  stood 
in  need  of  help : as  for  myself,  I have  no  great  dependence  on 
the  promises  of  great  men ; I look  to  the  booksellers  for  sup- 
port ; they  are  my  best  friends,  and  I am  not  inclined  to  for- 
sake them  for  others.’”  “Thus,”  continues  Sir  John,  “did 
this  idiot  in  the  affairs  of  the  world  trifle  with  his  fortunes, 
and  put  back  the  hand  that  was  held  out  to  assist  him.” 

We  cannot  join  with  Sir  John  in  his  worldly  sneer  at  the 
conduct  of  Goldsmith  on  this  occasion.  While  we  admire  that 
honest  independence  of  spirit  which  prevented  him  from  ask- 
ing favors  for  himself,  we  love  that  warmth  of  affection  which 
instantly  sought  to  advance  the  fortunes  of  a brother : but  the 
peculiar  merits  of  Goldsmith  seem  to  have  been  little  under- 
stood by  the  Hawkinses,  the  Boswells,  and  the  other  biogra- 
phers of  the  day. 

After  all,  the  introduction  to  Northumberland  House  did  not 
prove  so  complete  a failure  as  the  humorous  account  given  by 
Goldsmith,  and  the  cynical  account  given  by  Sir  John  Haw- 
kins, might  lead  one  to  suppose.  Dr.  Percy,  the  heir  male  of 
the  ancient  Percies,  brought  the  poet  into  the  acquaintance  of 
his  kinswoman,  the  countess,  who,  before  her  marriage  with 
the  earl,  was  in  her  own  right  heiress  of  the  House  of  North- 
umberland. “She  was  a lady,”  says  Boswell,  “not  only  of 
high  dignity  of  spirit,  such  as  became  her  noble  blood,  but  of 
excellent  understanding  and  lively  talents.”  Under  her  aus- 
pices a poem  of  Goldsmith’s  had  an  aristocratical  introduction 
to  the  world.  This  was  the  beautiful  ballad  of  the  “ Hermit,” 
originally  published  under  the  name  of  “ Edwin  and  Angelina.” 
It  was  suggested  by  an  olcl^  English  ballad  beginning  “Gentle 
Herdsman,”  shown  him  by  Dr.  Percy,  who  was  at  that  time 
making  his  famous  collection,  entitled  “Keliques  of  Ancient 
English  Poetry,”  which  he  submitted  to  the  inspection  of 
Goldsmith  prior  to  publication.  A few  copies  only  of  the 
“Hermit”  were  printed  at  first,  with  the  following  title-page: 
“Edwin  and  Angelina:  a Ballad.  By  Mr.  Goldsmith.  Printed 
for  the  Amusement  of  the  Countess  of  Northumberland.” 

All  this,  though  it  may  not  have  been  attended  with  any 
immediate  pecuniary  advantage,  contributed  to  give  Gold- 
smith’s name  and  poetry  the  high  stamp  of  fashion,  so  potent 
in  England;  the  circle  at  Northumberland  House,  however, 


114 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


was  of  too  stately  and  aristocratical  a nature  to  be  much  to 
his  taste,  and  we  do  not  find  that  he  became  familiar  in  it. 

He  was  much  more  at  home  at  Gosfield,  the  noble  seat  of  his 
countryman,  Eobert  Nugent,  afterward  Baron  Nugent  and 
Viscount  Clare,  who  appreciated  his  merits  even  more  heartily 
than  the  Earl  of  Northumberland,  and  occasionally  made  him 
his  guest  both  in  town  and  country.  Nugent  is  described  as  a 
jovial  voluptuary,  who  left  the  Roman  Catholic  for  the  Pro- 
testant religion,  with  a view  to  bettering  his  fortunes ; he  had 
an  Irishman’s  inclination  for  rich  widows,  and  an  Irishman’s 
luck  with  the  sex ; having  been  thrice  married  and  gained  a 
fortune  with  each  wife.  He  was  now  nearly  sixty,  with  a re- 
markably loud  voice,  broad  Irish  brogue,  and  ready,  but  some- 
what coarse  wit.  With  all  his  occasional  coarseness  he  was 
capable  of  high  thought,  and  had  produced  poems  which 
showed  a truly  poetic  vein.  He  was  long  a member  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  where  his  ready  wit,  his  fearless  decision, 
and  good-humored  audacity  of  expression,  always  gained  him 
a hearing,  though  his  tall  person  and  awkward  manner  gained 
him  the  nickname  of  Squire  Gawky,  among  the  political  scrib- 
blers of  the  day.  With  a patron  of  this  jovial  temperament, 
Goldsmith  probably  felt  more  at  ease  than  with  those  of  higher 
refinement. 

The  celebrity  which  Goldsmith  had  acquired  by  his  poem  of 
“The  Traveller,”  occasioned  a resuscitation  of  many  of  his 
miscellaneous  and  anonymous  tales  and  essays  from  the  va- 
rious newspapers  and  other  transient  publications  in  which 
they  lay  dormant.  These  he  published  in  1765,  in  a collected 
form,  under  the  title  of  “Essays  by  Mr.  Goldsmith.”  “The 
following  essays,”  observes  he  in  his  preface,  “have  already 
appeared  at  different  times,  and  in  different  publications. 
The  pamphlets  in  which  they  were  inserted  being  generally 
unsuccessful,  these  shared  the  common  fate,  without  assisting 
the  booksellers’  aims,  or  extending  the  author’s  reputation. 
The  public  were  too  strenuously  employed  with  their  own  fol- 
lies to  be  assiduous  in  estimating  mine ; so  that  many  of  my 
best  attempts  in  this  way  have  fallen  victims  to  the  transient 
topic  of  the  times— the  Ghost  in  Cock-lane,  or  the  Siege  of 
Ticonderoga. 

“But,  though  they  have  passed  pretty  silently  into  the 
world,  I can  by  no  means  complain  of  their  circulation.  The 
magazines  and  papers  of  the  day  have  indeed  been  liberal 
enough  in  this  respect.  Most  of  these  essays  have  been  regu- 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH . 


115 


larly  reprinted  twice  or  thrice  a year,  and  conveyed  to  the 
public  through  the  kennel  of  some  engaging  compilation.  If 
there  he  a pride  in  multiplied  editions,  I have  seen  some  of  my 
labors  sixteen  times  reprinted,  and  claimed  by  different  parents 
as  their  own.  I have  seen  them  flourished  at  the  beginning 
with  praise,  and  signed  at  the  end  with  the  names  of  Philautos, 
Pliilalethes,  Phileleutheros,  and  Philanthropos.  It  is  time, 
however,  at  last  to  vindicate  my  claims;  and  as  these  enter- 
tainers of  the  public,  as  they  call  themselves,  have  partly  lived 
upon  me  for  some  years,  let  me  now  try  if  I cannot  live  a little 
upon  myself.” 

It  was  but  little,  in  fact,  for  all  the  pecuniary  emolument  he 
received  from  the  volume  was  twenty  guineas.  It  had  a good 
circulation,  however,  was  translated  into  French,  and  has 
maintained  its  stand  among  the  British  classics. 

Notwithstanding  that  the  reputation  of  Goldsmith  had 
greatly  risen,  his  finances  were  often  at  a very  low  ebb,  owing 
to  his  heedlessness  as  to  expense,  his  liability  to  be  imposed 
upon,  and  a spontaneous  and  irresistible  propensity  to  give  to 
every  one  who  asked.  The  very  rise  in  his  reputation  had  in- 
creased these  embarrassments.  It  had  enlarged  his  circle  of 
needy  acquaintances,  authors  poorer  in  pocket  than  himself, 
who  came  in  search  of  literary  counsel ; which  generally  meant 
a guinea  and  a breakfast.  And  then  his  Irish  hangers-on  I 
“Our  Doctor,”  said  one  of  these  sponges,  “had  a constant 
levee  of  his  distressed  countrymen,  whose  wants,  as  far  as  he 
was  able,  he  always  relieved ; and  he  has  often  been  known  to 
leave  himself  without  a guinea,  in  order  to  supply  the  neces- 
sities of  others.” 

This  constant  drainage  of  the  purse  therefore  obliged  him  to 
undertake  all  jobs  proposed  by  the  booksellers,  and  to  keep  up 
a kind  of  running  account  with  Mr.  Newbery;  who  was  his 
banker  on  all  occasions,  sometimes  for  pounds,  sometimes  for 
shillings ; but  who  was  a rigid  accountant,  and  took  care  to  be 
amply  repaid  in  manuscript.  Many  effusions  hastily  penned 
in  these  moments  of  exigency,  were  published  anonymously, 
and  never  claimed.  Some  of  them  have  but  recently  been 
traced  to  his  pen;  while  of  many  the  true  authorship  will 
probably  never  be  discovered.  Among  others  it  is  suggested, 
and  with  great  probability,  that  he  wrote  for  Mr.  Newbery  the 
famous  nursery  story  of  “ Goody  Two  Shoes,”  which  appeared 
in  1765,  at  a moment  when  Goldsmith  was  scribbling  for  New- 
bery, and  much  pressed  for  funds.  Several  quaint  little  tales 


116 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


introduced  in  his  Essays  show  that  he  had  a turn  for  this 
species  of  mock  history ; and  the  advertisement  and  title-page 
bear  the  stamp  of  his  sly  and  playful  humor. 

“We  are  desired  to  give  notice,  that  there  is  in  the  press,  and 
speedily  will  be  published,  either  by  subscription  or  otherwise, 
as  the  public  shall  please  to  determine,  the  History  of  Little 
Goody  Two  Shoes,  otherwise  Mrs.  Margery  Two  Shoes;  with 
the  means  by  which  she  acquired  learning  and  wisdom,  and, 
in  consequence  thereof,  her  estate;  set  forth  at  large  for  the 
benefit  of  those 

* Who,  from  a state  of  rags  and  care, 

And  having  shoes  but  half  a pair, 

Their  fortune  and  their  fame  should  fix, 

And  gallop  in  a coach  and  six.” 


The  world  is  probably  not  aware  of  the  ingenuity,  humor, 
good  sense,  and  sly  satire  contained  in  many  of  the  old  Eng- 
lish nursery-tales.  They  have  evidently  been  the  sportive  pro- 
ductions of  able  writers,  who  would  not  trust  their  names  to 
productions  that  might  be  considered  beneath  their  dignity. 
The  ponderous  works  on  which  they  relied  for  immortality 
have  perhaps  sunk  into  oblivion,  and  carried  their  names 
down  with  them;  while  their  unacknowledged  offspring,  Jack 
the  Giant  Killer,  Giles  Gingerbread,  and  Tom  Thumb,  flourish 
in  wide-spreading  and  never-ceasing  popularity. 

As  Goldsmith  had  now  acquired  popularity  and  an  extensive 
acquaintance,  he  attempted,  with  the  advice  of  his  friends,  to 
procure  a more  regular  and  ample  support  by  resuming  the 
medical  profession.  He  accordingly  launched  himself  upon  the 
town  in  style ; hired  a man-servant ; replenished  his  wardrobe 
at  considerable  expense,  and  appeared  in  a professional  wig  and 
cane,  purple  silk  small-clothes,  and  a scarlet  roquelaure  but- 
toned to  the  chin : a fantastic  garb,  as  we  should  think  at  the 
present  day,  but  not  unsuited  to  the  fashion  of  the  times. 

With  his  sturdy  little  person  thus  arrayed  in  the  unusual 
magnificence  of  purple  and  fine  linen,  and  his  scarlet  roquelaure 
flaunting  from  his  shoulders,  he  used  to  strut  into  the  apart- 
ments of  his  patients  swaying  his  three-cornered  hat  in  one 
hand  and  his  medical  sceptre,  the  cane,  in  the  other,  and  as- 
suming an  air  of  gravity  and  importance  suited  to  the  solem- 
nity of  his  wig ; at  least,  such  is  the  picture  given  of  him  by 
the  waiting  gentlewoman  who  let  him  into  the  chamber  of  one 
of  his  lady  patients. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


117 


He  soon,  however,  grew  tired  and  impatient  of  the  duties 
and  restraints  of  his  profession ; his  practice  was  chiefly  among 
his  friends,  and  the  fees  were  not  sufficient  for  his  maintenance ; 
he  was  disgusted  with  attendance  on  sick-chambers  and  capri- 
cious patients,  and  looked  back  with  longing  to  his  tavern 
haunts  and  broad  convivial  meetings,  from  which  the  dignity 
and  duties  of  his  medical  calling  restrained  him.  At  length, 
on  prescribing  to  a lady  of  his  acquaintance  who,  to  use  a hack- 
neyed phrase,  44 rejoiced”  in  the  aristocratical  name  of  Side- 
botham,  a warm  dispute  arose  between  him  and  the  apothecary 
as  to  the  quantity  of  medicine  to  be  administered.  The  doctor 
stood  up  for  the  rights  and  dignities  of  his  profession,  and  re- 
sented the  interference  of  the  compounder  of  drugs.  His  rights 
and  dignities,  however,  were  disregarded;  his  wig  and  cane 
and  scarlet  roquelaure  were  of  no  avail ; Mrs.  Sidebotham  sided 
with  the  hero  of  the  pestle  and  mortar ; and  Goldsmith  flung 
out  of  the  house  in  a passion.  44  I am  determined  henceforth,” 
said  he  to  Topham  Beauclerc,  “to  leave  off  prescribing  for 
friends.”  “Do  so,  my  dear  doctor,”  was  the  reply;  “when- 
ever you  undertake  to  kill,  let  it  be  only  your  enemies.” 

This  was  the  end  of  Goldsmith’s  medical  career. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

PUBLICATION  OF  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD— OPINIONS  CONCERN- 
ING IT — OF  DR.  JOHNSON — OF  ROGERS  THE  POET— OF  GOETHE— 
ITS  MERITS— EXQUISITE  EXTRACT — ATTACK  BY  KENRICK— RE- 
PLY— BOOK-BUILDING— PROJECT  OF  A COMEDY. 

The  success  of  the  poem  of  4 4 The  Traveller,  ” and  the  popu- 
larity which  it  had  conferred  on  its  author,  now  roused  the  at- 1 
tention  of  the  bookseller  in  whose  hands  the  novel  of  4 4 The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield  ” had  been  slumbering  for  nearly  two  long 
years.  The  idea  has  generally  prevailed  that  it  was  Mr.  John 
Newbery  to  whom  the  manuscript  had  been  sold,  and  much 
surprise  has  been  expressed  that  he  should  be  insensible  to  its 
merit  and  suffer  it  to  remain  unpublished,  while  putting  forth 
various  inferior  writings  by  the  same  author.  This,  however, 
is  a mistake;  it  was  his  nephew,  Francis  Newbery,  who  had 
become  the  fortunate  purchaser.  Still  the  delay  is  equally  un- 


118 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


accountable.  Some  have  imagined  that  the  uncle  and  nephew 
had  business  arrangements  together,  in  which  this  work  was 
included,  and  that  the  elder  Newbery,  dubious  of  its  success, 
retarded  the  publication  until  the  full  harvest  of  ‘ ‘ The  Trav- 
eller” should  be  reaped.  Booksellers  are  prone  to  make  egre- 
gious mistakes  as  to  the  merit  of  works  in  manuscript ; and  to 
undervalue,  if  not  reject,  those  of  classic  and  enduring  excel- 
lence, when  destitute  of  that  false  brilliancy  commonly  called 
“ effect.”  In  the  present  instance,  an  intellect  vastly  superior 
to  that  of  either  of  the  booksellers  was  equally  at  fault.  Dr. 
Johnson,  speaking  of  the  work  to  Boswell,  some  time  subse- 
quent to  its  publication,  observed,  “I  myself  did  not  think  it 
would  have  had  much  success.  It  was  written  and  sold  to  a 
bookseller  before  ‘The  Traveller,’  but  published  after,  so  little 
expectation  had  the  bookseller  from  it.  Had  it  been  sold  after 
‘The  Traveller,’  he  might  have  had  twice  as  much  money; 
though  sixty  guineas  was  no  mean  price.  ” 

Sixty  guineas  for  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield!  and  this  could  be 
pronounced  no  mean  price  by  Dr.  Johnson,  at  that  time  the 
arbiter  of  British  talent,  and  who  had  had  an  opportunity  of 
witnessing  the  effect  of  the  work  upon  the  public  mind;  for  its 
success  was  immediate.  It  came  out  on  the  27th  of  March, 
1766 ; before  the  end  of  May  a second  edition  was  called  for ; in 
three  months  more  a third ; and  so  it  went  on,  widening  in  a 
popularity  that  has  never  flagged.  Rogers,  the  Nestor  of 
British  literature,  whose  refined  purity  of  taste  and  exquisite 
mental  organization,  rendered  him  eminently  calculated  to 
appreciate  a work  of  the  kind,  declared  that  of  all  the  books, 
which,  through  the  fitful  changes  of  three  generations  he  had 
seen  rise  and  fall,  the  charm  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  had 
alone  continued  as  at  first ; and  could  he  revisit  the  world  after 
an  interval  of  many  more  generations,  he  should  as  surely  look 
to  find  it  undiminished.  Nor  has  its  celebrity  been  confined 
to  Great  Britain.  Though  so  exclusively  a picture  of  British 
scenes  and  manners,  it  has  been  translated  into  almost  every 
language,  and  everywhere  its  charm  has  been  the  same. 
Goethe,  the  great  genius  of  Germany,  declared  in  his  eighty- 
first  year,  that  it  was  his  delight  at  the  age  of  twenty,  that  it 
had  in  a manner  formed  a part  of  his  education,  influencing  his 
taste  and  feelings  throughout  life,  and  that  he  had  recently 
read  it  again  from  beginning  to  end — with  renewed  delight,  and 
“with  a grateful  sense  of  the  early  benefit  derived  from  it. 

It  is  needless  to  expatiate  upon  the  qualities  of  a work  whiqh 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


119 


has  thus  passed  from  country  to  country,  and  language  to  lan- 
guage, until  it  is  now  known  throughout  the  whole  reading 
world,  and  is  become  a household  book  in  every  hand.  The 
secret  of  its  universal  and  enduring  popularity  is  undoubtedly 
its  truth  to  nature,  but  to  nature  of  the  most  amiable  kind ; to 
nature  such  as  Goldsmith  saw  it.  The  author,  as  we  have  occa- 
sionally shown  in  the  course  of  this  memoir,  took  his  scenes 
and  characters  in  this  as  in  his  other  writings,  from  originals 
in  his  own  motley  experience ; but  he  has  given  them  as  seen  • 
through  the  medium  of  his  own  indulgent  eye,  and  has  set  them 
forth  with  the  colorings  of  his  own  good  head  and  heart.  Yet 
how  contradictory  it  seems  that  this,  one  of  the  most  delightful 
pictures  of  home  and  homefelt  happiness,  should  be  drawn  by 
a homeless  man ; that  the  most  amiable  picture  of  domestic  vir- 
tue and  all  the  endearments  of  the  married  state  should  be 
drawn  by  a bachelor,  who  had  been  severed  from  domestic  life 
almost  from  boyhood ; that  one  of  the  most  tender,  touching, 
and  affecting  appeals  on  behalf  of  female  loveliness  should 
have  been  made  by  a man  whose  deficiency  in  all  the  graces 
of  person  and  manner  seemed  to  mark  him  out  for  a cynical 
disparager  of  the  sex. 

We  cannot  refrain  from  transcribing  from  the  work  a short 
passage  illustrative  of  what  we  have  said,  and  which  within  a 
wonderfully  small  compass  comprises  a world  of  beauty  of 
imagery,  tenderness  of  feeling,  delicacy  and  refinement  of 
thought,  and  matchless  purity  of  style.  The  two  stanzas 
which  conclude  it,  in  which  are  told  a whole  history  of  a 
woman’s  wrongs  and  sufferings,  is,  for  pathos,  simplicity,  and 
euphony,  a gem  in  the  language.  The  scene  depicted  is  where 
the  poor  Vicar  is  gathering  around  him  the  wrecks  of  his  shat- 
tered family,  and  endeavoring  to  rally  them  back  to  happiness. 

4 4 The  next  morning  the  sun  arose  with  peculiar  warmth  for 
the  season,  so  that  we  agreed  to  breakfast  together  on  the 
honeysuckle  bank ; where,  while  we  sat,  my  youngest  daugh- 
ter at  my  request  joined  her  voice  to  the  concert  on  the  trees 
about  us.  It  was  in  this  place  my  poor  Olivia  first  met  her 
seducer,  and  every  object  served  to  recall  her  sadness.  But 
that  melancholy  which  is  excited  by  objects  of  pleasure,  or 
inspired  by  sounds  of  harmony,  soothes  the  heart  instead  of 
corroding  it.  Her  mother,  too,  upon  this  occasion,  felt  a 
pleasing  distress,  and  wept,  and  loved  her  daughter  as  before. 

4 Do,  my  pretty  Olivia,’  cried  she,  4 let  us  have  that  melancholy 
air  your  father  was  so  fond  of ; your  sister  Sophy  has  already 


120 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


obliged  us.  Do,  child;  it  will  please  your  old  father.’  Sh« 
complied  in  a manner  so  exquisitely  pathetic  as  moved  me. 

14  ‘ When  lovely  woman  stoow  to  folly, 

And  finds  too  late  tnat,  men  betray, 

What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy. 

What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away? 

“ * The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 

To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 

To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 

And  wring  his  bosom— is  to  die.1  ” \ 

Scarce  had  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  made  its  appeararce  and 
been  received  with  acclamation,  than  its  author  was  subjected 
to  one  of  the  usual  penalties  that  attend  success.  He  was  at- 
tacked in  the  newspapers.  In  one  of  the  chapters  he  had  in 
troduced  his  ballad  of  the  Hermit,  of  which,  as  we  have  men- 
tioned, a few  copies  had  been  printed  some  considerable  time 
previously  for  the  use  of  the  Countess  of  Northumberland. 
This  brought  forth  the  following  article  in  a fashionable  jour- 
nal of  the  day. 

‘ 1 To  the  Printer  of  the  St.  James's  Chronicle. 

“ Sir:  In  the  Reliques  of  Ancient  Poetry,  published  about 
two  years  ago,  is  a very  beautiful  little  ballad,  called  1 A Friar 
of  Orders  Gray.’  The  ingenious  editor,  Mr.  Percy,  supposes 
that  the  stanzas  sung  by  Ophelia  in  the  play  of  Hamlet  were 
parts  of  some  ballad  well  known  in  Shakespeare’s  time,  and 
from  these  stanzas,  with  the  addition  of  one  or  two  of  his  own 
to  connect  them,  he  had  formed  the  above-mentioned  ballad ; 
the  subject  of  which  is,  a lady  comes  to  a convent  to  inquire 
for  her  love  who  had  been  driven  there  by  her  disdain.  She 
is  answered  by  a friar  that  he  is  dead : 

“ 4 No,  no,  he  is  dead,  gone  to  his  death’s  bed 
He  never  will  come  again.’ 

The  lady  weeps  and  laments  her  cruelty ; the  friar  endeavors 
to  comfort  her  with  morality  and  religion,  but  all  in  vain ; she 
expresses  the  deepest  grief  and  the  most  tender  sentiments  of 
love,  till  at  last  the  friar  discovers  himself : 

“ ‘ And  lo!  beneath  this  gown  of  gray 
Thy  own  true  love  appears.’ 

“This  catastrophe  is  very  fine,  and  the  whole,  joined  with 
the  greatest  tenderness,  has  the  greatest  simplicity;  yet, 
though  this  ballad  was  so  recently  published  in  the  Ancient 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


121 


Reliques,  Dr.  Goldsmith  has  been  hardy  enough  to  publish  a 
poem  called  4 The  Hermit,’  where  the  circumstances  and  catas- 
trophe are  exactly  the  same,  only  with  this  difference,  that 
the  natural  simplicity  and  tenderness  of  the  original  are  al- 
most entirely  lost  in  the  languid  smoothness  and  tedious  para- 
phrase of  the  copy,  which  is  as  short  of  the  merits  of  Mr. 
Percy’s  ballad  as  the  insipidity  of  negus  is  to  the  genuine 
flavor  of  champagne. 

44  I am,  sir,  yours,  etc., 

u Detector.” 

This  attack,  supposed  to  be  by  Goldsmith’s  constant  perse- 
cutor, the  malignant  Kenrick,  drew  from  him  the  following 
note  to  the  editor : 

“Sir:  As  there  is  nothing  I dislike  so  much  as  newspaper 
controversy,  particularly  upon  trifles,  permit  me  to  be  as  con- 
cise as  possible  in  informing  a correspondent  of  yours  that  I 
recommended  Blainville’s  travels  because  I thought  the  book 
was  a good  one ; and  I think  so  still.  I said  I was  told  by  the 
bookseller  that  it  was  then  first  published ; but  in  that  it  seems 
I was  misinformed,  and  my  reading  was  not  extensive  enough 
to  set  me  right. 

44  Another  correspondent  of  yours  accuses  me  of  having 
taken  a ballad  I published  some  time  ago,  from  one  by  the  in- 
genious Mr.  Percy.  I do  not  think  there  is  any  great  resem- 
blance between  the  two  pieces  in  question.  If  there  be  any, 
his  ballad  was  taken  from  mine.  I read  it  to  Mr.  Percy  some 
years  ago ; and  he,  as  we  both  considered  these  things  as  trifles 
at  best,  told  me,  with  his  usual  good-humor,  the  next  time  I 
saw  him,  that  he  had  taken  my  plan  to  form  the  fragments  of 
Shakespeare  into  a ballad  of  his  own.  He  then  read  me  his 
little  Cento,  if  I may  so  call  it,  and  I highly  approved  it.  Such 
petty  anecdotes  as  these  are  scarcely  worth  printing;  and 
were  it  not  for  the  busy  disposition  of  some  of  your  corre- 
spondents, the  public  should  never  have  known  that  he  owes 
me  the  hint  of  his  ballad,  or  that  I am  obliged  to  his  friend- 
ship and  learning  for  communications  of  a much  more  impor- 
tant nature. 

44 1 am,  sir,  yours,  etc., 

44  Oliver  Goldsmith.7* 

The  unexpected  circulation  of  the  44  Vicar  of  Wakefield  ” en- 


122 


OLIVER  GOLD  SMITH 


riched  the  publisher,  but  not  the  author.  Goldsmith  no  doubt 
thought  himself  entitled  to  participate  in  the  profits  of  the  re- 
peated editions ; and  a memorandum,  still  extant,  shows  that 
he  drew  upon  Mr.  Francis  Newbery,  in  the  month  of  June,  for 
fifteen  guineas,  but  that  the  bill  was  returned  dishonored.  He 
continued  therefore  his  usual  job-work  for  the  booksellers, 
writing  introductions,  prefaces,  and  head  and  tail  pieces  for 
new  works ; revising,  touching  up,  and  modifying  travels  and 
voyages;  making  compilations  of  prose  and  poetry,  and 
“ building  books,”  as  he  sportively  termed  it.  These  tasks  re- 
quired little  labor  or  talent,  but  that  taste  and  touch  which  are 
the  magic  of  gifted  minds.  His  terms  began  to  be  propor- 
tioned to  his  celebrity.  If  his  price  was  at  any  time  objected 
to,  “ Why,  sir,”  he  would  say,  “it  may  seem  large;  but  then 
a man  may  be  many  years  working  in  obscurity  before  his 
taste  and  reputation  are  fixed  or  estimated ; and  then  he  is,  as 
in  other  professions,  only  paid  for  his  previous  labors.  ” 

He  was,  however,  prepared  to  try  his  fortune  in  a different 
walk  of  literature  from  any  he  had  yet  attempted.  We  have 
repeatedly  adverted  to  his  fondness  for  the  drama ; he  was  a 
frequent  attendant  at  the  theatres ; though,  as  we  have  shown, 
he  considered  them  under  gross  mismanagement.  He  thought 
too,  that  a vicious  taste  prevailed  among  those  who  wrote  for 
the  stage.  “ A new  species  of  dramatic  composition,”  says  he, 
in  one  of  his  essays,  “ has  been  introduced  under  the  name  of 
sentimental  comedy , in  which  the  virtues  of  private  life  are 
exhibited,  rather  than  the  vices  exposed ; and  the  distresses 
rather  than  the  faults  of  mankind  make  our  interest  in  the 
piece.  In  these  plays  almost  all  the  characters  are  good,  and 
exceedingly  generous;  they  are  lavlsh  enough  of  their  tin 
money  on  the  stage;  and  though  they  want  humor,  have 
abundance  of  sentiment  and  feeling.  If  ^h^y  happen  to  have 
faults  or  foatffes,  the  spectator  is  taught  not  only  to  pardon, 
but  to  applaud  them  in  consideration  of  the  goodness  of  their 
hearts ; so  that  folly,  instead  of  being  ridiculed,  is  commended, 
and  the  comedy  aims  at  touching  our  passions,  without  the 
power  of  being  truly  pathetic.  In  this  manner  we  are  likely 
to  lose  one  great  source  of  entertainment  on  the  stage;  for 
while  the  comic  poet  is  invading  the  province  of  the  tragic 
muse,  he  leaves  her  lively  sister  quite  neglected.  Of  this, 
however,  he  is  no  ways  solicitous,  as  he  measures  his  fame  by 
his  profits.  . . . 

“ Humor  at  present  seems  to  be  departing  from  the  stage; 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


123 


and  it  will  soon  happen  that  our  comic  players  will  have  noth- 
ing left  for  it  but  a fine  coat  and  a song.  It  depends  upon  the 
audience  whether  they  will  actually  drive  those  poor  merry 
creatures  from  the  stage,  or  sit  at  a play  as  gloomy  as  at  the 
tabernacle.  It  is  not  easy  to  recover  an  art  when  once  lost ; 
and  it  will  be  a just  punishment,  that  when,  by  our  being  too 
fastidious,  we  have  banished  humor  from  the  stage,  we  should 
ourselves  be  deprived  of  the  art  of  laughing.” 

Symptoms  of  reform  in  the  drama  had  recently  taken  place. 
The  comedy  of  the  Clandestine  Marriage , the  joint  production 
of  Colman  and  Garrick,  and  suggested  by  Hogarth’s  inimitable 
pictures  of  “Marriage  a la  mode,”  had  taken  the  town  by 
storm,  crowded  the  theatres  with  fashionable  audiences,  and 
formed  one  of  the  leading  literary  topics  of  the  year.  Gold- 
smith’s emulation  was  roused  by  its  success.  The  comedy  was 
in  what  he  considered  the  legitimate  fine,  totally  different  from 
the  sentimental  school;  it  presented  pictures  of  real  life,  de- 
lineations of  character  and  touches  of  humor,  in  which  he  felt 
himself  calculated  to  excel.  The  consequence  was  that  in  the 
course  of  this  year  (1766),  he  commenced  a comedy  of  the 
same  class,  to  be  entitled  the  Good-Natured  Man , at  which  he 
diligently  wrought  whenever  the  hurried  occupation  of  “ book 
building”  allowed  him  leisure. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

SOCIAL  POSITION  OP  GOLDSMITH  — HIS  COLLOQUIAL  CONTESTS 
WITH  JOHNSON — ANECDOTES  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

The  social  position  of  Goldsmith  had  undergone  a material 
change  since  the  publication  of  “ The  Traveller.”  Before  that 
event  he  was  but  partially  known  as  the  author  of  some  clever 
anonymous  writings,  and  had  been  a tolerated  member  of  the 
club  and  the  Johnson  circle,  without  much  being  expected 
from  him.  Now  he  had  suddenly  risen  to  literary  fame,  and 
become  one  of  the  lions  of  the  day.  The  highest  regions  of 
intellectual  society  were  now  open  to  him ; but  he  was  not 
prepared  to  move  in  them  with  confidence  and  success.  Bally- 
mahon  had  not  been  a good  school  of  manners  at  the  outset  o£ 
life;  nor  had  his  experience  as  a “poor  student”  at  colleges 
and  medical  schools  contributed  to  give  him  the  polish  of 


124 


OLIVER  GOLD  SMITH. 


society.  He  had  brought  from  Ireland,  as  he  said,  nothing 
but  his  “brogue  and  his  blunders,”  and  they  had  never  left 
him.  He  had  travelled,  it  is  true;  but  the  Continental  tour 
which  in  those  days  gave  the  finishing  grace  to  the  educate  I 
of  a patrician  youth,  had,  with  poor  Goldsmith,  been  little 
better  than  a course  of  literary  vagabondizing.  It  had  en- 
riched his  mind,  deepened  and  widened  the  benevolence  of  his 
heart,  and  filled  his  memory  with  enchanting  pictures,  but  it 
had  contributed  little  to  disciplining  him  for  the  police  inter- 
course of  the  world.  His  life  in  London  had  hitherto  been  a 
struggle  with  sordid  cares  and  sad  humiliations.  “You 
scarcely  can  conceive,”  wrote  he  some  time  previously  to  his 
brother,  4 4 how  much  eight  years  of  disappointment,  anguish, 
and  study  have  worn  me  down.”  Several  more  years  had 
since  been  added  to  the  term  during  which  he  had  trod  the 
lowly  wal£s  of  life.  He  had  been  a tutor,  an  apothecary’s 
drudge,  a petty  physician  of  the  suburbs,  a bookseller’s  hack, 
drudging  for  daily  bread.  Each  separate  walk  had  been  beset 
by  its  peculiar  thorns  and  humiliations.  It  is  wonderful  how 
his  heart  retained  its  gentleness  and  kindness  through  all  these 
trials;  how  his  mind  rose  above  the  44  meannesses  of  poverty,” 
to  which,  as  he  says,  he  was  compelled  to  submit ; but  it  would 
be  still  more  wonderful,  had  his  manners  acquired  a tone 
corresponding  to  the  innate  grace  and  refinement  of  his  in- 
tellect. He  was  near  forty  years  of  age  when  he  published 
44  The  Traveller,”  and  was  lifted  by  it  into  celebrity.  As  is 
beautifully  said  of  him  by  one  of  his  biographers,  “he  has 
fought  his  way  to  consideration  and  esteem;  but  he  bears 
upon  him  the  scars  of  his  twelve  years’  conflict ; of  the  mean 
sorrows  through  which  he  has  passed;  and  of  the  cheap  in- 
dulgences he  has  sought  relief  and  help  from.  There  is  noth- 
ing plastic  in  his  nature  now.  His  manners  and  habits  are 
completely  formed ; and  in  them  any  further  success  can  make 
little  favorable  change,  whatever  it  may  effect  for  his  mind  or 
genius.”  * 

We  are  not  to  be  surprised,  therefore,  at  finding  him  make 
an  awkward  figure  in  the  elegant  drawing-rooms  which  were 
now  open  to  him,  and  disappointing  those  who  had  formed  an 
idea  of  him  from  the  fascinating  ease  and  gracefulness  of  his 
poetry. 

Even  the  literary  club,  and  the  circle  of  which  it  formed  a 


* Forster’s  Goldsmith. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH . 


125 


part,  after  their  surprise  at  the  intellectual  flights  of  which  he 
showed  himself  capable,  fell  into  a conventioaal  mode  of  judg- 
ing and  talking  of  him,  and  of  placing  him  in  absurd  and 
whimsical  points  of  view.  His  very  celebrity  operated  here  to 
his  disadvantage.  It  brought  him  into  continual  comparison 
with  Johnson,  who  was  the  oracle  of  that  circle  and  had  given 
it  a tone.  Conversation  was  the  great  staple  there,  and  of  this 
Johnson  was  a master.  He  had  been  a reader  and  thinker 
from  childhood ; his  melancholy  temperament,  which  unfitted 
him  for  the  pleasures  of  youth,  had  made  him  so.  For  many 
years  past  the  vast  variety  of  works  he  had  been  obliged  to 
consult  in  preparing  his  Dictionary,  had  stored  an  uncom- 
monly retentive  memory  with  facts  on  all  kinds  of  subjects; 
making  it  a perfect  colloquial  armory.  44  He  had  all  his  life,” 
says  Boswell,  4 4 habituated  himself  to  consider  conversation  as 
a trial  of  intellectual  vigor  and  skill.  He  had  disciplined  him- 
self as  a talker  as  well  as  a writer,  making  it  a rule  to  impart 
whatever  he  knew  in  the  most  forcible  language  he  could  put 
it  in,  so  that  by  constant  practice  and  never  suffering  any 
careless  expression  to  escape  him,  he  had  attained  an  extraor- 
dinary accuracy  and  command  of  language.” 

His  common  conversation  in  all  companies,  according  to  Sir 
Joshua  ^Reynolds,  was  such  as  to  secure  him  universal  atten- 
tion, something  above  the  usual  colloquial  style  being  always 
expected  from  him. 

“I  do  not  care,”  said  Orme,  the  historian  of  Hindostan,  4 4 on 
what  subject  Johnson  talks;  but  I love  better  to  hear  him  talk 
than  anybody.  He  either  gives  you  new  thoughts  or  a new 
coloring.  ” 

A stronger  and  more  graphic  eulogium  is  given  by  Dr. 
Percy.  4 4 The  conversation  of  Johnson,”  says  he,  44  is  strong 
and  clear,  and  may  be  compared  to  an  antique  statue,  where 
every  vein  and  muscle  is  distinct  and  clear.” 

* Such  was  the  colloquial  giant  with  which  Goldsmith’s  cele- 
brity and  his  habits  of  intimacy  brought  him  into  continual 
comparison;  can  we  wonder  that  he  should  appear  to  dis- 
advantage ? Conversation  grave,  discursive,  and  disputatious, 
such  as  Johnson  excelled  and  delighted  in,  was  to  him  a severe 
task,  and  he  never  was  good  at  a task  of  any  kind.  He  had 
not,  like  Johnson,  a vast  fund  of  acquired  facts  to  draw  upon; 
nor  a retentive  memory  to  furnish  them  forth  when  wanted. 
He  could  not,  like  the  great  lexicographer,  mould  his  ideas 
and  balance  his  periods  while  talking.  He  had  a flow  of  ideas, 


126 


OLIVER  GOLD  SMITH 


but  it  was  apt  to  be  hurried  and  confused,  and  as  he  said  of 
himself,  ho  had  contracted  a hesitating  and  disagreeable  man- 
ner of  speaking.  lie  used  to  say  that  he  always  argued  best 
when  he  argued  alone;  that  is  to  say,  he  could  master  a sub- 
ject in  his  study,  with  his  pen  in  his  hand;  bub,  when  he  came 
into  company  he  grew  confused,  and  was  unable  to  talk  about 
it.  Johnson  made  a remark  concerning  him  to  somewhat  of 
the  same  purport.  “ No  man,”  said  he,  “is  more  foolish  than 
Goldsmith  when  he  has  not  a pen  in  his  hand,  or  more  wise 
when  he  has.”  Yet  with  all  this  conscious  deficiency  he  was 
continually  getting  involved  in  colloquial  contests  with  John- 
son and  other  prime  talkers  of  the  literary  circle.  He  felt  that 
he  had  become  a notoriety ; that  he  had  entered  the  lists  and 
was  expected  to  make  fight ; so  with  that  heedlessness  which 
characterized  him  in  everything  else  he  dashed  on  at  a ven- 
ture ; trusting  to  chance  in  this  as  in  other  things,  and  hoping 
occasionally  to  make  a lucky  hit.  Johnson  perceived  his  hap- 
hazard temerity,  but  gave  him  no  credit  for  the  real  diffidence 
which  lay  at  bottom.  “The  misfortune  of  Goldsmith  in  con- 
versation,” said  lie,  “is  this,  he  goes  on  without  knowing  how 
he  is  to  get  off.  His  genius  is  great,  but  his  knowledge  is 
small.  As  they  say  of  a generous  man,  it  is  a pity  he  is  not 
rich,  we  may  say  of  Goldsmith  it  is  a pity  he  is  not  knowfing. 
He  would  not  keep  his  knowledge  to  himself.”  And,  on 
another  occasion,  he  observes:  “Goldsmith,  rather  than  not 
talk,  will  talk  of  what  he  knows  himself  to  be  ignorant,  which 
can  only  end  in  exposing  him.  If  in  company  with  two  foun 
ders,  he  would  fall  a talking  on  the  method  of  making  cannon, 
though  both  of  them  would  soon  see  that  he  did  not  know 
what  metal  a cannon  is  made  of.”  And  again:  “Goldsmith 
should  not  be  forever  attempting  to  shine  in  conversation ; he 
has  not  temper  for  it,  he  is  so  much  mortified  when  he  fails. 
Sir,  a game  of  jokes  is  composed  partly  of  skill,  partly  of 
chance ; a man  may  be  beat  at  times  by  one  who  has  not  the 
tenth  part  of  his  wit.  Now  Goldsmith,  putting  himself  against 
another,  is  like  a man  laying  a hundred  to  one,  who  camnot 
spare  the  hundred.  It  is  not  worth  a man’s  while.  A man 
should  not  lay  a hundred  to  one  unless  he  can  easily  spare  it, 
though  he  has  a hundred  chances  for  him ; he  can  get  but  a 
guinea,  and  he  may  lose  a hundred.  Goldsmith  is  in  this 
state.  When  he  contends,  if  he  gets  the  better,  it  is  a very 
little  addition  to  a man  of  his  literary  reputation ; if  he  does 
not  get  the  better,  he  is  miserably  vexed.” 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


m 


Johnson  was  not  aware  how  much  he  was  himself  to  blame 
in  producing  this  vexation.  “ Goldsmith/’  said  Miss  Reynolds, 
“always  appeared  to  be  overawed  by  Johnson,  particularly 
when  in  company  with  people  of  any  consequence  ; always  as 
if  impressed  with  fear  of  disgrace ; and  indeed  well  he  might. 
I have  been  witness  to  many  mortifications  he  has  suffered  in 
Dr.  Johnson’s  company.” 

It  may  not  have  been  disgrace  that  he  feared,  but  rudeness. 
The  great  lexicographer,  spoiled  by  the  homage  of  society,  was 
still  more  prone  than  himself  to  lose  temper  when  the  argu- 
ment went  against  him.  He  could  not  brook  appearing  to  be 
worsted  ; but  would  attempt  to  bear  down  his  adversary  by 
the  rolling  thunder  of  his  periods ; and  when  that  failed, 
would  become  downright  insulting.  Boswell  called  it  ‘ ‘ having 
recourse  to  some  sudden  mode  of  robust  sophistry ;”  but  Gold- 
smith designated  it  much  more  happily.  ‘ ‘ There  is  no  argu- 
ing with  Johnson/’  said  he,  “ for  when  his  pistol  misses  five,  he 
knocks  you  down  with  the  butt  end  of  it.”  * 

In  several  of  the  intellectual  collisions  recorded  by  Boswell 
as  triumphs  of  Dr.  Johnson,  it  really  appears  to  us  that  Gold- 
smith had  the  best  both  of  tho  wit  and  the  argument,  and 
especially  of  the  courtesy  and  good-nature. 

On  one  occasion  he  certainly  gave  Johnson  a capital  reproof 
as  to  his  own  colloquial  peculiarities.  Talking  of  fables,  Gold- 
smith observed  that  the  animals  introduced  in  them  seldom 
talked  in  character.  “For  instance,”  said  he,  “the  fable  of 
the  little  fishes,  who  saw  birds  fly  over  their  heads,  and,  envy- 
ing them,  petitioned  Jupiter  to  be  changed  into  birds.  Tho 
skill  consists  in  making  them  talk  like  little  fishes.”  Just  then 
observing  that  Dr.  Johnson  was  shaking  his  sides  and  laugh- 
ing, he  immediately  added,  “ Why,  Dr.  Johnson,  this  is  not  so 
easy  as  you  seem  to  think ; for  if  you  were  to  make  little  fishes 
talk,  they  would  talk  like  whales.” 

But  though  Goldsmith  suffered  frequent  mortifications  in  so- 
ciety from  the  overbearing,  and  sometimes  harsh,  conduct  of 
Johnson,  he  always  did  justice  to  his  benevolence.  When 
royal  pensions  were  granted  to  Dr.  Johnson  and  Dr.  Sheb- 
beare,  a punster  remarked,  that  the  king  had  pensioned  a she - 


* The  following  is  given  by  Boswell,  as  an  instance  of  robust  sophistry:  “ Once, 
when  I was  pressing  upon  him  with  visible  advantage,  he  stopped  me  thus,  ‘ My 
dear  Boswell,  let’s  have  no  more  of  this;  you’ll  make  nothing  of  it.  I’d  rather  hear 
you  whistle  a Scotch  tune.’  ” 


128 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


bear  and  a Tie-bear;  to  which  Goldsmith  replied,  “Johnson,  to 
be  sure,  has  a roughness  in  his  manner,  but  no  man  alive  has 
a more  tender  heart.  He  has  nothing  of  the  bear  but  the  skin . ” 
Goldsmith,  in  conversation,  shone  most  when  he  least 
thought  of  shining;  when  he  gave  up  all  effort  to  appear  wise 
and  learned,  or  to  cope  with  the  oracular  sententiousness  of 
Johnson,  and  gave  way  to  his  natural  impulses.  Even  Bos- 
well  could  perceive  his  merits  on  these  occasions.  “For  my 
part,”  said  he,  condescendingly,  “ I like  very  well  to  hear  hon- 
est Goldsmith  talk  away  carelessly and  many  a much  wiser 
man  than  Boswell  delighted  in  those  outpourings  of  a fertile 
fancy  and  a generous  heart.  In  his  happy  moods,  Goldsmith 
had  an  artless  simplicity  and  buoyant  good-humor,  that  led  to 
a thousand  amusing  blunders  and  whimsical  confessions,  much 
to  the  entertainment  of  his  intimates ; yet,  in  his  most  thought- 
less garrulity,  there  was  occasionally  the  gleam  of  the  gold 
and  the  flash  of  the  diamond. 


CHAPTER,  XIX. 

SOCIAL  RESORTS — THE  SHILLING  WHIST  CLUB— A PRACTICAL  JOKE 
—THE  WEDNESDAY  CLUB  — THE  “ TUN  OF  MAN”  — THE  PIG 
BUTCHER— TOM  KING— HUGH  KELLY— GLOVER  AND  HIS  CHAR- 
ACTERISTICS. 

Though  Goldsmith’s  pride  and  ambition  led  him  to  mingle 
occasionally  with  high  society,  and  to  engage  in  the  colloquial 
conflicts  of  the  learned  circle,  in  both  of  which  he  was  ill  at 
ease  and  conscious  of  being  undervalued,  yet  he  had  some  so- 
cial resorts  in  which  he  indemnified  himself  for  their  restraints 
by  indulging  his  humor  without  control.  One  of  them  was  a 
shilling  whist  club,  which  held  its  meetings  at  the  Devil  Tav- 
ern, near  Temple  Bar,  a place  rendered  classic,  we  are  told,  by 
a club  held  there  in  old  times,  to  which  “rare  Ben  Jonson” 
had  furnished  the  rules.  The  company  was  of  a familiar,  un- 
ceremonious kind,  delighting  in  that  very  questionable  wit 
which  consists  in  playing  off  practical  jokes  upon  each  other. 
Of  one  of  these  Goldsmith  was  made  the  butt.  Coming  to  the 
club  one  night  in  a hackney  coach,  he  gave  the  coachman  by 
mistake  a guinea  instead  of  a shilling,  which  he  set  down  as  a 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH . 


129 


dead  loss,  for  there  was  no  likelihood,  he  said,  that  a fellow  of 
this  class  would  have  the  honesty  to  return  the  money.  On 
the  next  club  evening  he  was  told  a person  at  the  street  door 
wished  to  speak  with  him.  He  went  forth,  but  soon  returned 
with  a radiant  countenance.  To  his  surprise  and  delight  the 
coachman  had  actually  brought  back  the  guinea.  While  he 
launched  forth  in  praise  of  this  unlooked-for  piece  of  honesty, 
he  declared  it  ought  not  to  go  unrewarded.  Collecting  a small 
sum  from  the  club,  and  no  doubt  increasing  it  largely  from  his 
own  purse,  he  dismissed  the  Jehu  with  many  encomiums  on 
his  good  conduct.  He  was  still  chanting  his  praises,  when  one 
of  the  club  requested  a sight  of  the  guinea  thus  honestly  re- 
turned. To  Goldsmith’s  confusion  it  proved  to  be  a counter- 
feit. The  universal  burst  of  laughter  which  succeeded,  and 
the  jokes  by  which  he  was  assailed  on  every  side,  showed  him 
that  the  whole  was  a hoax,  and  the  pretended  coachman  as 
much  a counterfeit  as  the  guinea.  He  was  so  disconcerted,  it 
is  said,  that  he  soon  beat  a retreat  for  the  evening. 

Another  of  those  free  and  easy  clubs  met  on  Wednesday 
evenings  at  the  Globe  Tavern  in  Fleet  Street.  It  was  some- 
what in  the  style  of  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons;  songs,  jokes, 
dramatic  imitations,  burlesque  parodies  and  broad  sallies  of 
humor,  formed  a contrast  to  the  sententious  morality,  pedan- 
tic casuistry,  and  polished  sarcasm  of  the  learned  circle.  Here 
a huge  “tun  of  man,”  by  the  name  of  Gordon,  used  to  delight 
Goldsmith  by  singing  the  jovial  song  of  Nottingham  Ale,  and 
looking  like  a butt  of  it.  Here,  too,  a wealthy  pig  butcher, 
charmed,  no  doubt,  by  the  mild  philanthropy  of . “ The  Trav- 
eller,” aspired  to  be  on  the  most  social  footing  with  the  author, 
and  here  was  Tom  King,  the  comedian,  recently  risen  to  con- 
sequence by  his  performance  of  Lord  Ogleby  in  the  new  com- 
edy of  the  Clandestine  Marriage. 

A member  of  more  note  was  one  Hugh  Kelly,  a second-rate 
author,  who,  as  he  became  a kind  of  competitor  of  Gold- 
smith’s, deserves  particular  mention.  He  was  an  Irishman, 
about  twenty-eight  years  of  age,  originally  apprenticed  to  a 
staymaker  in  Dublin ; then  writer  to  a London  attorney ; then 
a Grub  Street  hack,  scribbling  for  magazines  and  newspapers. 
Of  late  he  had  set  up  for  theatrical  censor  and  satirist,  and,  in 
a paper  called  Thespis,  in  emulation  of  Churchill’s  Rosciad, 
had  harassed  many  of  the  poor  actors  without  mercy,  and 
often  without  wit ; but  had  lavished  his  incense  on  Garrick, 
who*  in  consequence,  took  him  into  favor.  He  was  the  author 


130 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


of  several  works  of  superficial  merit,  but  which  had  sufficient 
vogue  to  inflate  his  vanity.  This,  however,  must  have  been 
mortified  on  his  first  introduction  to  Johnson;  after  sitting  a 
short  time  he  got  up  to  take  leave,  expressing  a fear  that  a 
longer  visit  might  be  troublesome.  “Not  in  the  least,  sir,” 
said  the  surly  moralist,  ‘ 4 I had  forgotten  you  were  in  the 
room.”  Johnson  used  to  speak  of  him  as  a man  who  had 
written  more  than  he  had  read. 

A prime  wag  of  this  club  was  one  of  Goldsmith’s  poor  coun- 
trymen and  hangers-on,  by  the  name  of  Glover.  He  had  ori- 
ginally been  educated  for  the  medical  profession,  but  had  taken 
in  early  life  to  the  stage,  though  apparently  without  much  suc- 
cess. While  performing  at  Cork,  he  undertook,  partly  in  jest, 
to  restore  life  to  the  body  of  a malefactor,  who  had  iust  been 
executed.  To  the  astonishment  of  every  one,  himselt  among 
the  number,  he  succeeded.  The  miracle  took  wind.  He  aban- 
doned the  stage,  resumed  the  wig  and  cane,  and  considered  his 
fortune  as  secure.  Unluckily,  there  were  not  many  dead  peo- 
ple to  be  restored  to  life  in  Ireland ; his  practice  did  not  equal 
his  expectation,  so  he  came  to  London,  where  he  continued  to 
dabble  indifferently,  and  rather  unprofitably,  in  physic  and 
literature. 

He  was  a great  frequenter  of  the  Globe  and  Devil  taverns, 
where  he  used  to  amuse  the  company  by  his  talent  at  story- 
telling and  his  powers  of  mimicry,  giving  capital  imitations  of 
Garrick,  Foote,  Column,  Sterne,  and  other  public  characters 
of  the  day.  He  seldom  happened  to  have  money  enough  to 
pay  his  reckoning,  but  was  always  sure  to  find  some  ready 
purse  among  those  who  had  been  amused  by  his  humors. 
Goldsmith,  of  course,  was  one  of  the  readiest.  It  was  through 
him  that  Glover  was  admitted  to  the  Wednesday  Club,  of 
which  his  theatrical  imitations  became  the  delight.  Glover, 
however,  was  a little  anxious  for  the  dignity  of  his  patron, 
which  appeared  to  him  to  suffer  from  the  over-familiarity  of 
some  of  the  members  of  the  club.  He  was  especially  shocked 
by  the  free  and  easy  tone  in  which  Goldsmith  was  addressed 
by  the  pig-butcher:  “ Come,  Noll,”  would  he  say  as  he  pledged 
him,  ‘ ‘ here’s  my  service  to  you,  old  boy !” 

Glover  whispered  to  Goldsmith  that  he  ‘ ‘ should  not  allow 
such  liberties.  ” ‘ 4 Let  him  alone,  ” was  the  reply,  ‘ ‘ you’ll  see 

how  civilly  I’ll  let  him  down.”  After  a time,  he  called  out, 
with  marked  ceremony  and  politeness,  “Mr.  B.,  I have  the 
honor  of  drinking  your  good  health.”  Alas!  dignity  was  not 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  “V  . i ' 131 

poor  Goldsmith’s  forte:  he  could  keep  no  one  at  a distance. 
“Thank’ee,  thank’ee,  Noll,”  nodded  the  pig-butcher,  scarce 
taking  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth.  ‘ 4 1 don’t  see  the  effect  of 
your  reproof,”  whispered  Glover.  “I  give  it  up,”  replied 
Goldsmith,  with  a good-humored  shrug,  “I  ought  to  have 
known  before  now  there  is  no  putting  a pig  in  the  right  way.” 

Johnson  used  to  be  severe  upon  Goldsmith  for  mingling  in 
these  motley  circles,  observing,  that,  having  been  originally 
poor,  he  had  contracted  a love  for  low  company.  Goldsmith, 
however,  was  guided  not  by  a taste  for  what  was  low,  but  for 
what  was  comic  and  characteristic.  It  was  the  feeling  of  the 
artist ; the  feeling  which  furnished  out  some  of  his  best  scenes 
in  familiar  life;  the  feeling  with  which  “rare  Ben  Jonson” 
sought  these  very  haunts  and  circles  in  days  of  yore,  to  study 
“ Every  Man  in  his  Humor.” 

It  was  not  always,  however,  that  the  humor  of  these  asso- 
ciates was  to  his  taste:  as  they  became  boisterous  in  their 
merriment,  he  was  apt  to  become  depressed.  “The  company 
of  fools,”  says  he,  in  one  of  his  essays,  “ may  at  first  make  us 
smile;  but  at  last  never  fails  of  making  us  melancholy.” 
“ Often  he  would  become  moody,”  says  Glover,  “and  would 
leave  the  party  abruptly  to  go  home  and  brood  over  his  mis- 
fortune.” 

It  is  possible,  however,  that  he  went  home  for  quite  a differ- 
ent purpose ; to  commit  to  paper  some  scene  or  passage  sug- 
gested for  his  comedy  of  The  Good-Natured  Man . The  ela- 
boration of  humor  is  often  a most  serious  task ; and  we  have 
never  witnessed  a more  perfect  picture  of  mental  misery  than 
was  once  presented  to  us  by  a popular  dramatic  writer — still, 
we  hope,  living— whom  we  found  in  the  agonies  of  producing 
a farce  which  subsequently  set  the  theatres  in  a roar. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  GREAT  CHAM  OF  LITERATURE  AND  THE  KING — SCENE  AT  SIR 
JOSHUA  REYNOLDS’S  — GOLDSMITH  ACCUSED  OF  JEALOUSY- 
NEGOTIATIONS  WITH  GARRICK— THE  AUTHOR  AND  THE  ACTOR 
—THEIR  CORRESPONDENCE. 

The  comedy  of  The  Good-Natured  Man  was  completed  by 
Goldsmith  early  in  1767,  and  submitted  to  the  perusal  of  John- 


132 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


son,  Burke,  Reynolds,  and  others  of  the  literary  club,  by 
whom  it  was  heartily  approved.  Johnson,  who  was  seldom 
half  way  either  in  censure  or  applause,  pronounced  it  the  best 
comedy  that  had  been  written  since  The  Provoked  Husband , 
and  promised  to  furnish  the  prologue.  This  immediately 
became  an  object  of  great  solicitude  with  Goldsmith,  knowing 
the  weight  an  introduction  from  the  Great  Cham  of  literature 
would  have  with  the  public ; but  circumstances  occurred  which 
he  feared  might  drive  the  comedy  and  the  prologue  from 
Johnson’s  thoughts.  The  latter  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting 
the  royal  library  at  the  Queen’s  (Buckingham)  House,  a noble 
collection  of  books,  in  the  formation  of  which  he  had  assisted 
the  librarian,  Mr.  Bernard,  with  his  advice.  One  evening,  as 
he  was  seated  there  by  the  fire  reading,  he  was  surprised  by 
the  entrance  of  the  King  (George  III.),  then  a young  man;  who 
sought  this  occasion  to  have  a conversation  with  him.  The 
conversation  was  varied  and  discursive ; the  king  shifting  from 
subject  to  subject  according  to  his  wont;  “ during  the  whole 
interview,”  says  Boswell,  “Johnson  talked  to  his  majesty 
with  profound  respect,  but  still  in  his  open,  manly  manner, 
with  a sonorous  voice,  and  never  in  that  subdued  tone  which 
is  commonly  used  at  the  levee  and  in  the  drawing-room.  ‘ I 
found  his  majesty  wished  I should  talk,’  said  he,  ‘and  I made 
it  my  business  to  talk.  I find  it  does  a man  good  to  be  talked 
to  by  his  sovereign.  In  the  first  place,  a man  cannot  be  in  a 
passion — ’ ” It  would  have  been  well  for  Johnson’s  colloquial 
disputants,  could  he  have  often  been  under  such  decorous 
restraint.  He  retired  from  the  interview  highly  gratified  with 
the  conversation  of  the  King  and  with  his  gracious  behavior. 
“ Sir,”  said  he  to  the  librarian,  “they  may  talk  of  the  King  as 
they  will,  but  he  is  the  finest  gentleman  I have  ever  seen,” 
“ Sir,”  said  he  subsequently  to  Bennet  Langton,  “his  manners 
are  those  of  as  fine  a gentleman  as  we  may  suppose  Lewis  the 
Fourteenth  or  Charles  the  Second.” 

While  Johnson’s  face  was  still  radiant  with  the  reflex  of 
royalty,  he  was  holding  forth  one  day  to  a listening  group  at 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds’s,  who  were  anxious  to  hear  every  par* 
ticular  of  this  memorable  conversation.  Among  other  ques- 
tions, the  King  had  asked  him  whether  he  was  writing  any- 
thing. His  reply  was  that  he  thought  he  had  already  done  his 
part  as  a writer.  “I  should  have  thought  so  too,”  said  the 
King,  “if  you  had  not  written  so  well.”  “No  man,”  said 
Johnson,  commenting  on  this  speech,  “could  have  made  a 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


133 


handsomer  compliment ; and  it  was  fit  for  a king  to  pay.  It 
was  decisive.  ” “ But  did  you  make  no  reply  to  this  high  com- 

pliment?” asked  one  of  the  company.  “No,  sir,”  replied  the 
profoundly  deferential  Johnson,  “when  the  King  had  said  it, 
it  was  to  be  so.  It  was  not  for  me  to  bandy  civilities  with  my 
sovereign.” 

During  all  the  time  that  Johnson  was  thus  holding  forth, 
Goldsmith,  who  was  present,  appeared  to  take  no  interest  in 
the  royal  theme,  but  remained  seated  on  a sofa  at  a distance, 
in  a moody  fit  of  abstraction ; at  length  recollecting  himself, 
he  sprang  up,  and  advancing,  exclaimed,  with  what  Boswell 
calls  his  usual  “frankness  and  simplicity,”  “Well,  you  ac- 
quitted yourself  in  this  conversation  better  than  I should  have 
done,  for  I should  have  bowed  and  stammered  through  the 
whole  of  it.”  He  afterward  explained  his  seeming  inattention, 
by  saying  that  his  mind  was  completely  occupied  about  his 
play,  and  by  fears  lest  Johnson,  in  his  present  state  of  royal 
excitement,  would  fail  to  furnish  the  much-desired  prologue. 

How  natural  and  truthful  is  this  explanation.  Yet  Boswell 
presumes  to  pronounce  Goldsmith’s  inattention  affected,  and 
attributes  it  to  jealousy.  “It  was  strongly  suspected,”  says 
he,  “ that  he  was  fretting  with  chagrin  and  envy  at  the  singu- 
lar honor  Dr.  Johnson  had  lately  enjoyed.”  It  needed  the 
littleness  of  mind  of  Boswell  to  ascribe  such  pitiful  motives 
to  Goldsmith,  and  to  entertain  such  exaggerated  notions  of  the 
honor  paid  to  Dr.  Johnson. 

The  Good-Natured  Man  was  now  ready  for  performance,  but 
the  question  was  how  to  get  it  upon  the  stage.  The  affairs  of 
Covent  Garden,  for  which  it  had  been  intended,  were  thrown 
in  confusion  by  the  recent  death  of  Rich,  the  manager.  Drury 
Lane  was  under  the  management  of  Garrick,  but  a feud,  it 
will  be  recollected,  existed  between  him  and  the  poet,  from  the 
animadversions  of  the  latter  on  the  mismanagement  of  theat- 
rical affairs,  and  the  refusal  of  the  former  to  give  the  poet  his 
vote  for  the  secretaryship  of  the  Society  of  Arts.  Times,  how- 
ever, were  changed.  Goldsmith  when  that  feud  took  place 
was  an  anonymous  writer,  almost  unknown  to  fame,  and  of  no 
circulation  in  society. 

Now  he  had  become  a literary  lion;  he  was  a member 
of  the  Literary  Club;  he  was  the  associate  of  Johnson, 
Burke,  Topham  Beauclerc,  and  other  magnates— in  a word, 
he  had  risen  to  consequence  in  the  public  eye,  and  of  course 
rrm  of  consequence  in  the  eyes  of  P^yid  Garrick, 


134 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Joshua  Reynolds  saw  the  lurking  scruples  of  pride  exist- 
ing between  the  author  and  actor,  and  thinking  it  a pity  that 
two  men  of  such  congenial  talents,  and  who  might  be  so  ser- 
viceable to  each  other,  should  be  kex>t  asunder  by  a wornout 
pique,  exerted  his  friendly  offices  to  bring  them  together.  The 
meeting  took  place  in  Reynolds’s  house  in  Leicester  Square. 
Garrick,  however,  could  not  entirely  put  off  the  mock  majesty 
of  the  stage ; he  meant  to  be  civil,  but  he  was  rather  too  gra- 
cious and  condescending.  Tom  Davies,  in  his  “Life  of  Gar- 
rick,” gives  an  amusing  picture  of  the  coming  together  of  these 
punctilious  parties.  “The  manager,”  says  he,  “was  fully 
conscious  of  his  (Goldsmith’s)  merit,  and  perhaps  more  osten- 
tatious of  his  abilities  to  serve  a dramatic  author  than  became 
a man  of  his  prudence ; Goldsmith  was,  on  his  side,  as  fully 
persuaded  of  his  own  importance  and  independent  greatness. 
Mr.  Garrick,  who  had  so  long  been  treated  with  the  compli- 
mentary language  paid  to  a successful  patentee  and  admired 
actor,  expected  that  the  writer  would  esteem  the  patronage  of 
his  play  a favor;  Goldsmith  rejected  all  ideas  of  kindness  in  a 
bargain  that  was  intended  to  be  of  mutual  advantage  to  both 
parties,  and  in  this  he  was  certainly  justifiable ; Mr.  Garrick 
could  reasonably  expect  no  thanks  for  the  acting  a new  play, 
which  he  would  have  rejected  if  he  had  not  been  convinced  it 
would  amply  reward  his  pains  and  expense.  I believe  the 
manager  was  willing  to  accept  the  play,  but  he  wished  to 
be  courted  to  it ; and  the  doctor  was  not  disposed  to  purchase 
his  friendship  by  the  resignation  of  his  sincerity.”  They  sepa- 
rated, however,  with  an  understanding  on  the  part  of  Gold- 
smith that  his  play  would  be  acted.  The  conduct  of  Garrick 
subsequently  proved  evasive,  not  through  any  lingerings  of 
past  hostility,  but  from  habitual  indecision  in  matters  of  the 
kind,  and  from  real  scruples  of  delicacy.  He  did  not  think  the 
piece  likely  to  succeed  on  the  stage,  and  avowed  that  opinion 
to  Reynolds  and  Johnson;  but  hesitated  to  say  as  much  to 
Goldsmith,  through  fear  of  wounding  his  feelings.  A further 
misunderstanding  was  the  result  of  this  want  of  decision  and 
frankness ; repeated  interviews  and  some  correspondence  took 
place  without  bringing  matters  to  a point,  and  in  the  meantime 
the  theatrical  season  passed  away. 

Goldsmith’s  pocket,  never  well  supplied,  suffered  grievously 
by  this  delay,  and  he  considered  himself  entitled  to  call  upon 
the  manager,  who  still  talked  of  acting  the  play,  to  advance 
him  forty  pounds  upon  a note  of  the  younger  Newbery.  Gar- 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


135 


rick  readily  complied,  but  subsequently  suggested  certain  im- 
portant alterations  in  the  comedy  as  indispensable  to  its 
success;  these  were  indignantly  rejected  by  the  author,  but 
pertinaciously  insisted  on  by  the  manager.  Garrick  proposed 
to  leave  the  matter  to  the  arbitration  of  Whitehead,  the  lau- 
reate, who  officiated  as  his  “reader”  and  elbow  critic.  Gold- 
smith was  more  indignant  than  ever,  and  a violent  dispute 
ensued,  which  was  only  calmed  by  the  interference  of  Burke 
and  Reynolds. 

Just  at  this  time  order  came  out  of  confusion  in  the  affairs  of 
Covent  Garden.  A pique  having  risen  between  Colman  and 
Garrick,  in  the  course  of  their  joint  authorship  of  The  Clandes- 
tine Marriage , the  former  had  become  manager  and  part  pro- 
prietor of  Covent  Garden,  and  was  preparing  to  open  a power- 
ful competition  with  his  former  colleague.  On  hearing  of  this, 
Goldsmith  made  overtures  to  Colman ; who,  without  waiting 
to  consult  his  fellow  proprietors,  who  were  absent,  gave 
instantly  a favorable  reply.  Goldsmith  felt  the  contrast  of  this 
warm,  encouraging  conduct,  to  the  chilling  delays  and  objec- 
tions of  Garrick.  He  at  once  abandoned  his  piece  to  the 
discretion  of  Colman.  “Dear  sir,”  says  he  in  a letter  dated 
Temple  Garden  Court,  July  9th,  “I  am  very  much  obliged  to 
you  for  your  kind  partiality  in  my  favor,  and  your  tenderness 
in  shortening  the  interval  of  my  expectation.  That  the  play  is 
liable  to  many  objections  I well  know,  but  I am  happy  that 
it  is  in  hands  the  most  capable  in  the  world  of  removing 
them.  If  then,  dear  sir,  you  will  complete  your  favor  by  put- 
ting the  piece  into  such  a state  as  it  may  be  acted,  or  of  direct- 
ing me  how  to  do  it,  I shall  ever  retain  a sense  of  your  goodness 
to  me.  And  indeed,  though  most  probably  this  be  the  last  I 
shall  ever  write,  yet  I can’t  help  feeling  a secret  satisfaction 
that  poets  for  the  future  are  likely  to  have  a protector  who  de- 
clines taking  advantage  of  their  dreadful  situation ; and  scorns 
that  importance  which  may  be  acquired  by  trifling  with  their 
anxieties.” 

The  next  day  Goldsmith  wrote  to  Garrick,  who  was  at  Lich- 
field, informing  him  of  his  having  transferred  his  piece  to 
Co  vent  Garden,  for  which  it  had  been  originally  written,  and 
by  the  patentee  of  which  it  was  claimed,  observing,  “As  I 
found  you  had  very  great  difficulties  about  that  piece,  I com- 
plied with  his  desire.  ...  I am  extremely  sorry  that  you 
should  think  me  warm  at  our  last  meeting;  your  judgment 
certainly  ought  to  be  free,  especially  in  a matter  which  must  in 


136 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


some  measure  concern  your  own  credit  and  interest.  I assure 
you,  sir,  I have  no  disposition  to  differ  with  you  on  this  or  any 
other  account,  but  am,  with  a high  opinion  of  your  abilities, 
and  a very  real  esteem,  Sir,  your  most  obedient  humble  ser- 
vant, Oliver  Goldsmith.” 

In  his  reply,  Garrick  observed,  4 ‘ I was,  indeed,  much  hurt 
that  your  warmth  at  our  last  meeting  mistook  my  sincere  and 
friendly  attention  to  your  play  for  the  remains  of  a former 
misunderstanding,  which  I had  as  much  forgot  as  if  it  had 
never  existed.  What  I said  to  you  at  my  own  house  I now  re- 
peat, that  I felt  more  pain  in  giving  my  sentiments  than  you 
possibly  would  in  receiving  them.  It  has  been  the  business, 
and  ever  will  be,  of  my  life  to  live  on  the  best  terms  with  men 
of  genius ; and  I know  that  Dr.  Goldsmith  will  have  no  reason 
to  change  his  previous  friendly  disposition  toward  me,  as  I 
shall  be  glad  of  every  future  opportunity  to  convince  him  how 
much  I am  his  obedient  servant  and  well-wisher,  D.  Garrick.” 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

MORE  HACK  AUTHORSHIP — TOM  DAVIES  AND  THE  ROMAN  HISTORY 
— CANONBURY  CASTLE— POLITICAL  AUTHORSHIP — PECUNIARY 
TEMPTATION— DEATH  OF  NEWBERY  THE  ELDER. 

Though  Goldsmith’s  comedy  was  now  in  train  to  be  per- 
formed, it  could  not  be  brought  out  before  Christmas ; in  the 
meantime,  he  must  live.  Again,  therefore,  he  had  to  resort  to 
literary  jobs  for  his  daily  support.  These  obtained  for  him 
petty  occasional  sums,  the  largest  of  which  wras  ten  pounds, 
from  the  elder  Newbery,  for  an  historical  compilation;  but 
this  scanty  rill  of  quasi  patronage,  so  sterile  in  its  products, 
was  likely  soon  to  cease;  Newbery  being  too  ill  to  attend  to 
business,  and  having  to  transfer  the  whole  management  of  it 
to  his  nephew. 

At  this  time  Tom  Davies,  the  sometime  Roscius,  sometime 
bibliopole,  stepped  forward  to  Goldsmith’s  relief,  and  proposed 
that  he  should  undertake  an  easy  popular  history  of  Rome  in 
two  volumes.  An  arrangement  was  soon  made.  Goldsmith 
undertook  to  complete  it  in  two  years,  if  possible,  for  two  hun- 
dred and  fiftv  guineas,  and  forthwith  set  about  his  task  with 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


137 


cheerful  alacrity.  As  usual,  he  sought  a rural  retreat  during 
the  summer  months,  where  he  might  alternate  his  literary 
labors  with  strolls  about  the  green  fields.  ‘ ‘ Merry  Islington” 
was  again  his  resort,  but  he  now  aspired  to  better  quarters 
than  formerly,  and  engaged  the  chambers  occupied  occasion- 
ally by  Mr.  Newbery  in  Canonbury  House,  or  Castle  as  it  is 
popularly  called.  This  had  been  a hunting  lodge  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  in  whose  time  it  was  surrounded  by  parks  and  for- 
ests. In  Goldsmith’s  day,  nothing  remained  of  it  but  an  old 
brick  tower ; it  was  still  in  the  country,  amid  rural  scenery, 
and  was  a favorite  nestling-place  of  authors,  publishers,  and 
others  of  the  literary  order.*  A number  of  these  he  had  for 
fellow  occupants  of  the  castle ; and  they  formed  a temporary 
club,  which  held  its  meetings  at  the  Crown  Tavern,  on  the 
Islington  lower  road ; and  here  he  presided  in  his  own  genial 
style,  and  was  the  life  and  delight  of  the  company. 

The  writer  of  these  pages  visited  old  Canonbury  Castle  some 
years  since,  out  of  regard  to  the  memory  of  Goldsmith.  The 
apartment  was  still  shown  which  the  poet  had  inhabited,  con- 
sisting of  a sitting-room  and  small  bedroom,  with  panelled 
wainscots  and  Gothic  windows.  The  quaintness  and  quietude 
of  the  place  were  still  attractive.  It  was  one  of  the  resorts  of 
citizens  on  their  Sunday  walks,  who  would  ascend  to  the  top 
of  the  tower  and  amuse  themselves  with  reconnoitring  the 
city  through  a telescope.  Not  far  from  this  tower  were  the 
gardens  of  the  White  Conduit  House,  a Cockney  Elysium, 
where  Goldsmith  used  to  figure  in  the  humbler  days  of  his  for- 
tune. In  the  first  edition  of  his  “ Essays”  he  speaks  of  a stroll 
in  these  gardens,  where  he  at  that  time,  no  doubt,  thought  him- 
self in  perfectly  genteel  society.  After  his  rise  in  the  world, 
however,  he  became  too  knowing  to  speak  of  such  plebeian 
haunts.  In  a new  edition  of  his  4 ‘ Essays,  ” therefore,  the 
White  Conduit  House  and  its  garden  disappears,  and  he  speaks 
of  “ a stroll  in  the  Park.” 


* See  on  the  distant  slope,  majestic  shows 
Old  Canonbury’s  tower,  an  ancient  pile 
To  various  fates  assigned ; and  where  by  turns 
Meanness  and  grandeur  have  alternate  reign’d,; 
Thither,  in  latter  days,  hath  genius  fled 
From  yonder  city,  to  respire  and  die. 

There  the  sweet  bard  of  Auburn  sat,  and  tuned 
The  plaintive  moanings  of  his  village  dirge. 
There  learned  Chambers  treasured  lore  for 
And  Nowbery  there  his  A B 0’s  for 


138 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


While  Goldsmith  was  literally  living  from  hand  to  mouth 
by  the  forced  drudgery  of  the  pen,  his  independence  of  spirit 
was  subjected  to  a sore  pecuniary  trial.  It  was  the  opening  ol 
Lord  North’s  administration,  a time  of  great  political  excite- 
ment. The  public  mind  was  agitated  by  the  question  of  Amer- 
ican taxation,  and  other  questions  of  like  irritating  tendency. 
Junius  and  Wilkes  and  other  powerful  writers  were  attacking 
the  administration  with  all  their  force ; Grub  Street  was  stirred 
up  to  its  lowest  depths ; inflammatory  talent  of  all  kinds  was 
in  full  activity,  and  the  kingdom  was  deluged  with  pamphlets, 
lampoons  and  libels  of  the  grossest  kinds.  The  ministry  were 
looking  anxiously  round  for  literary  support.  It  was  thought 
that  the  pen  of  Goldsmith  might  be  readily  enlisted.  His  hos- 
pitable friend  and  countryman,  Robert  Nugent,  politically 
known  as  Squire  Gawky,  had  come  out  strenuously  for  colo- 
nial taxation ; had  been  selected  for  a lordship  of  the  board  of 
trade,  and  raised  to  the  rank  of  Baron  Nugent  and  Viscount 
Clare.  His  example,  it  was  thought,  would  be  enough  of 
itself  to  bring  Goldsmith  into  the  ministerial  ranks,  and  then 
what  writer  of  the  day  was  proof  against  a full  purse  or  a pen- 
sion? Accordingly  one  Parson  Scott,  chaplain  to  Lord  Sand- 
wich, and  author  of  Ante  Sejanus  Panurge,  and  other  political 
libels  in  support  of  the  administration,  was  sent  to  negotiate 
with  the  poet,  who  at  this  time  was  returned  to  town.  Dr. 
Scott,  in  after  years,  when  his  political  subserviency  had  been 
rewarded  by  two  fat  crown  livings,  used  to  make  what  he  con- 
sidered a good  story  out  of  this  embassy  to  the  poet.  “ I found 
him,”  said  he,  “ in  a miserable  suit  of  chambers  in  the  Temple. 
I told  him  my  authority : I told  how  I was  empowered  to  pay 
most  liberally  for  his  exertions ; and,  would  you  believe  it ! he 
was  so  absurd  as  to  say,  4 1 can  earn  as  much  as  will  supply  my 
wants  without  writing  for  any  party ; the  assistance  you  offer 
is  therefore  unnecessary  to  me ; ’—and  so  I left  him  in  his  gar- 
ret !”  Who  does  not  admire  the  sturdy  independence  of  poor 
Goldsmith  toiling  in  his  garret  for  nine  guineas  the  job,  and 
smile  with  contempt  at  the  indignant  wonder  of  the  political 
divine,  albeit  his  subserviency  was  repaid  by  two  fat  crown 
livings? 

Not  long  after  this  occurrence,  Goldsmith’s  old  friend, 
though  frugal-handed  employer,  Newbery,  of  picture-book 
renown,  closed  his  mortal  career.  The  poet  has  celebrated  him 
as  the  friend  of  all  mankind ; he  certainly  lost  nothing  by  his 
friendship.  He  coined  the  brains  of  his  authors  in  the  times  of 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


139 


their  exigency,  and  made  them  pay  dear  for  the  plank  put  out 
to  keep  them  from  drowning.  It  is  not  likely  his  death  caused 
much  lamentation  among  the  scribbling  tribe;  we  may  ex- 
press decent  respect  for  the  memory  of  the  just,  but  we  shed 
tears  only  at  the  grave  of  the  generous. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THEATRICAL  MANOEUVRING— THE  COMEDY  OF  “ FALSE  DELICACY1’ 
— FIRST  PERFORMANCE  OF  “ THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN” — CON- 
DUCT OF  JOHNSON — CONDUCT  OF  THE  AUTHOR— INTERMEDDLING 
OF  THE  PRESS. 

The  comedy  of  The  Good-Natured  Man  was  doomed  to  ex- 
perience delays  and  difficulties  to  the  very  last.  Garrick,  not- 
withstanding his  professions,  had  still  a lurking  grudge  against 
the  author,  and  tasked  his  managerial  arts  to  thwart  him  in  his 
theatrical  enterprise.  For  this  purpose  he  undertook  to  build 
up  Hugh  Kelly,  Goldsmith’s  boon  companion  of  the  Wednes- 
day Club,  as  a kind  of  rival.  Kelly  had  written  a comedy 
called  False  Delicacy , in  which  were  embodied  all  the  meretri- 
cious qualities  of  the  sentimental  school.  Garrick,  though  he 
had  decried  that  school,  and  had  brought  out  his  comedy  of 
The  Clandestine  Marriage  in  opposition  to  it,  now  lauded 
False  Delicacy  to  the  skies,  and  prepared  to  bring  it  out  at 
Drury  Lane  with  all  possible  stage  effect.  He  even  went  so 
far  as  to  write  a prologue  and  epilogue  for  it,  and  to  touch  up 
some  parts  of  the  dialogue.  He  had  become  reconciled  to  his 
former  colleague,  Colman,  and  it  is  intimated  that  one  condi- 
tion in  the  treaty  of  peace  between  these  potentates  of  the 
realms  of  pasteboard  (equally  prone  to  play  into  each  other’s 
hands  with  the  confederate  potentates  on  the  great  theatre  of 
life)  was,  that  Goldsmith’s  play  should  be  kept  back  until 
Kelly’s  had  been  brought  forward. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  poor  author,  little  dreaming  of  the 
deleterious  influence  at  work  behind  the  scenes,  saw  the  ap- 
pointed time  arrive  and  pass  by  without  the  performance  of 
his  play ; while  False  Delicacy  was  brought  out  at  Drury  Lane 
(January  23,  1768)  with  all  the  trickery  of  managerial  manage- 
ment, Houses  were  packed  to  applaud  it  to  the  echo;  the 


140 


OLIVER  0 OLD  SMITH, 


newspapers  vied  with  each  other  in  their  venal  praises,  and 
night  after  night  seemed  to  give  it  a fresh  triumph. 

While  False  Delicacy  was  thus  borne  on  the  full  tide  of  fio- 
titious  prosperity,  The  Good-Natured  Man  was  creeping  through 
the  last  rehearsals  at  Covent  Garden.  The  success  of  the  rival 
piece  threw  a damp  upon  author,  manager,  and  actors.  Gold- 
smith went  about  with  a face  full  of  anxiety;  Colman’s  hopes 
in  the  piece  declined  at  each  rehearsal ; as  to  his  fellow  pro^ 
prietors,  they  declared  they  had  never  entertained  any.  Alb 
the  actors  were  discontented  with  their  parts,  excepting  Ned 
Bhuter,  an  excellent  low  comedian,  and  a pretty  actress  named 
Miss  Walford;  both  of  whom  the  poor  author  ever  afterward 
held  in  grateful  recollection. 

Johnson,  Goldsmith’s  growling  monitor  and  unsparing  casti- 
gator  in  times  of  heedless  levity,  stood  by  him  at  present  with 
that  protecting  kindness  with  which  he  ever  befriended  him  in 
time  of  need.  He  attended  the  rehearsals ; he  furnished  the 
prologue  according  to  promise ; he  pish’d  and  pshaw’d  at  any 
doubts  and  fears  on  the  part  of  the  author,  but  gave  him  sound 
counsel,  and  held  him  up  with  a steadfast  and  manly  hand. 
Inspirited  by  his  sympathy,  Goldsmith  plucked  up  new  heart, 
and  arrayed  himself  for  the  grand  trial  with  unusual  care. 
Ever  since  his  elevation  into  the  polite  world,  he  had  improved 
in  his  wardrobe  and  toilet.  Johnson  could  no  longer  accuse 
him  of  being  shabby  in  his  appearance ; he  rather  went  to  the 
other  extreme.  On  the  present  occasion  there  is  an  entry  in 
the  books  of  his  tailor,  Mr.  William  Filby,  of  a suit  of 
“ Tyrian  bloom,  satin  grain,  and  garter  blue  silk  breeches,  £8 
2s.  7 d.  ” Thus  magnificently  attired,  he  attended  the  theatre 
and  watched  the  reception  of  the  play,  and  the  effect  of  each 
individual  scene,  with  that  vicissitude  of  feeling  incident  to 
his  mercurial  nature. 

Johnson’s  prologue  was  solemn  in  itself,  and  being  delivered 
by  Brinsley  in  lugubrious  tones  suited  to  the  ghost  in  Hamlet, 
seemed  to  throw  a portentous  gloom  on  the  audience.  Some 
of  the  scenes  met  with  great  applause,  and  at  such  times  Gold- 
smith was  highly  elated;  others  went  off  coldly,  or  there  were 
slight  tokens  of  disapprobation,  and  then  his  spirits  would  sink. 
The  fourth  act  saved  the  piece ; for  Shuter,  who  had  the  main 
comic  character  of  Croaker,  was  so  varied  and  ludicrous  in  his 
execution  of  the  scene  in  which  he  reads  an  incendiary  letter, 
that  he  drew  down  thunders  of  applause.  On  his  coming  be- 
hind the  scenes,  Goldsmith  greeted  him  with  an  overflowing 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


141 


heart ; declaring  that  he  exceeded  his  own  idea  of  the  charac- 
ter, and  made  it  almost  as  new  to  him  as  to  any  of  the  audh 
ence. 

On  the  whole,  however,  both  the  author  and  his  friends  were 
disappointed  at  the  reception  of  the  piece,  and  considered  it  a 
failure.  Poor  Goldsmith  left  the  theatre  with  his  towering 
hopes  completely  cut  down.  He  endeavored  to  hide  his  morti- 
fication, and  even  to  assume  an  air  of  unconcern  while  among 
his  associates ; but,  the  moment  he  was  alone  with  Dr.  John- 
son, in  whose  rough  but  magnanimous  nature  he  reposed  un- 
limited confidence,  he  threw  off  all  restraint  and  gave  way  to 
an  almost  childlike  burst  of  grief.  Johnson,  who  had  shown 
no  want  of  sympathy  at  the  proper  time,  saw  nothing  in  the 
partial  disappointment  of  overrated  expectations  to  warrant 
such  ungovemed  emotions,  and  rebuked  him  sternly  for  what 
he  termed  a silly  affectation,  saying  that  “ No  man  should  be 
expected  to  sympathize  with  the  sorrows  of  vanity.  ” 

When  Goldsmith  had  recovered  from  the  blow,  he,  with  his 
usual  unreserve,  made  his  past  distress  a subject  of  amusement 
to  his  friends.  Dining,  one  day,  in  company  with  Dr.  John- 
son, at  the  chaplain’s  table  at  St.  James’s  Palace,  he  enter- 
tained the  company  with  a particular  and  comic  account  of  all 
his  feelings  on  the  night  of  representation,  and  his  despair  when 
the  piece  was  hissed.  How  he  went,  he  said,  to  the  Literary 
Club ; chatted  gayly,  as  if  nothing  had  gone  amiss ; and,  to  give 
a greater  idea  of  his  unconcern,  sang  his  favorite  song  about 
an  old  woman  tossed  in  a blanket  seventeen  times  as  high  as 
the  moon.  . . . u All  this  while,”  added  he,  “ I was  suffering 
horrid  tortures,  and,  had  I put  a bit  in  my  mouth,  I verily  be- 
lieve it  would  have  strangled  me  on  the  spot,  I was  so  exces- 
sively ill : but  I made  more  noise  than  usual  to  cover  all  that ; 
so  they  never  perceived  my  not  eating,  nor  suspected  the  an- 
guish of  my  heart;  but,  when  all  were  gone  except  Johnson 
here,  I burst  out  a-crying,  and  even  swore  that  I would  never 
write  again.” 

Dr.  Johnson  sat  in  amaze  at  the  odd  frankness  and  childlike 
self -accusation  of  poor  Goldsmith.  When  the  latter  had  come 
to  a pause,  “ AH  this,  doctor,”  said  he  dryly,  “ I thought  had 
been  a secret  between  you  and  me,  and  I am  sure  I would  not 
have  said  anything  about  it  for  the  world.”  But  Goldsmith 
had  no  secrets : his  follies,  his  weaknesses,  his  errors  were  all 
thrown  to  the  surface ; his  heart  was  really  too  guileless  and 
innocent  to  seek  mystery  and  concealment.  It  is  too  often  the 


342 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


false,  designing  man  fchst  is  guarded  in  his  conduct  and  never 
offends  proprieties. 

It  is  singular,  however,  that  Goldsmith,  who  thus  in  conver- 
sation could  keep  nothing  to  himself,  should  be  the  author  of  a 
maxim  which  would,  inculcate  t-he  most  thorough  dissimula- 
tion. “Men  c f the  world.”  savs  he.  in  one  of  his  papers  of  the 
Bee,  ‘ ‘ maintain  that  the  true  end  of  speech  is  not  so  much  to 
express  our  wants  as  to  conceal  them.”  How  often  is  this 
quoted  as  one  of  the  subtle  remarks  of  the  fine-witted  Talley- 
rand ! 

The  Good-Natured  Man  was  performed  for  ten  nights  in 
succession;  the  third,  sixth,  and  ninth  nights  were  for  the 
author’s  benefit;  the  fifth  night  it  was  commanded  by  their 
majesties;  after  this  it  was  played  occasionally,  but  rarely, 
having  always  pleased  more  in  the  closet  than  on  the  stage. 

As  to  Kelly’s  comedy,  Johnson  pronounced  it  entirely  devoid 
of  character,  and  it  has  long  since  passed  into  oblivion.  Yet 
it  is  an  instance  how  an  inferior  production,  by  dint  of  puffing 
and  trumpeting,  may  be  kept  up  for  a time  on  the  surface  of 
popular  opinion,  or  rather  of  popular  talk.  What  had  been 
done  for  False  Delicacy  on  the  stage  was  continued  by  the 
press.  The  booksellers  vied  with  the  manager  in  launching  it 
upon  the  town.  They  announced  that  the  first  impression  of 
three  thousand  copies  was  exhausted  before  two  o’clock  on  the 
day  of  publication ; four  editions,  amounting  to  ten  thousand 
copies,  were  sold  in  the  course  of  the  season ; a public  break- 
fast was  given  to  Kelly  at  the  Chapter  Coffee  House,  and  a 
piece  of  plate  presented  to  him  by  the  publishers.  The  com- 
parative merits  of  the  two  plays  were  continually  subjects  of 
discussion  in  green-rooms,  coffee-houses,  and  other  places 
where  theatrical  questions  were  discussed. 

Goldsmith’s  old  enemy,  Kenrick,  that  “viper  of  the  press,” 
endeavored  on  this  as  on  many  other  occasions  to  detract  from 
his  well-earned  fame;  the  poet  was  excessively  sensitive  to 
these  attacks,  and  had  not  the  art  and  self-command  to  conceal 
his  feelings. 

Some  scribblers  on  the  other  side  insinuated  that  Kelly  had 
seen  the  manuscript  of  Goldsmith’s  play,  while  in  the  hands  of 
Garrick  or  elsewhere,  and  had  borrowed  some  of  the  situations 
and  sentiments.  Some  of  the  wags  of  the  day  took  a mis- 
chievous pleasure  in  stirring  up  a feud  between  the  two  authors. 
Goldsmith  became  nettled,  though  he  could  scarcely  be  deemed 
jealous  of  one  so  far  his  inferior.  He  spoke  disparagingly. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


143 


though  no  doubt  sincerely,  of  Kelly’s  play : the  latter  retorted. 
Still,  when  they  met  one  day  behind  the  scenes  of  Covent 
Garden,  Goldsmith,  with  his  customary  urbanity,  congratu- 
lated Kelly  on  his  success.  “If  I thought  you  sincere,  Mr. 
Goldsmith,”  replied  the  other,  abruptly,  “I  should  thank  you.” 
Goldsmith  was  not  a man  to  harbor  spleen  or  ill-will,  and  soon 
laughed  at  this  unworthy  rivalship : but  the  jealousy  and  envy 
awakened  in  Kelly’s  mind  long  continued.  He  is  even  accused 
ot  having  given  vent  to  his  hostility  by  anonymous  attacks  in 
the  newspapers,  the  basest  resource  of  dastardly  and  malig- 
nant) spirits ; but  of  this  there  is  no  positive  proof. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

BURNING  THE  CANDLE  AT  BOTH  ENDS — FINE  APARTMENTS — FINE 
FURNITURE  — FINE  CLOTHES  — FINE  ACQUAINT  AN CES  — SHOE- 
MAKER’S HOLIDAY  AND  JOLLY  PIGEON  ASSOCIATES — PETER 
BARLOW,  GLOVER,  AND  THE  HAMPSTEAD  HOAX — POOR  FRIENDS 
AMONG  GREAT  ACQUAINTANCES. 

The  profits  resulting  from  The  Good-Natured  Mom  were  be- 
yond any  that  Goldsmith  had  yet  derived  from  his  works.  He 
netted  about  four  hundred  pounds  from  the  theatre,  and  one 
hundred  pounds  from  his  publisher. 

Five  hundred  pounds!  and  all  at  one  miraculous  draught! 
It  appeared  to  him  wealth  inexhaustible.  It  at  once  opened  his 
heart  and  hand,  and  led  him  into  all  kinds  of  extravagance. 
The  first  symptom  was  ten  guineas  sent  to  Shuter  for  a box 
ticket  for  his  benefit,  when  The  Good-Natured  Man  was  to  be 
performed.  The  next  was  an  entire  change  in  his  domicile. 
The  shabby  lodgings  with  Jeffs  the  butler,  in  which  he  had 
been  worried  by  Johnson’s  scrutiny,  were  now  exchanged  for 
chambers  more  becoming  a man  of  his  ample  fortune.  The 
apartments  consisted  of  three  rooms  on  the  second  floor  of  No. 
2 Brick  Court,  Middle  Temple,  on  the  right  hand  ascending  the 
staircase,  and  overlooked  the  umbrageous  walks  of  the  Temple 
garden.  The  lease  he  purchased  for  £400,  and  then  went  on  to 
furnish  his  rooms  with  mahogany  sofas,  card-tables,  and  book- 
cases; with  curtains,  mirrors,  and  Wilton  carpets.  His  awk- 
ward little  person  was  also  furnished  out  in  a style  befitting 
his  apartment;  for,  in  addition  to  his  suit  of  “ Tyrian  bloom, 


114 


0 LI  VKU  GOLDSMITH 


satin  grain,”  we  find  another  charged  about  this  time,  in  the 
books  of  Mr.  Filby,  in  no  less  gorgeous  terms,  being  “lined 
with  silk  and  furnished  with  gold  buttons.”  Thus  lodged  and 
thus  arrayed,  he  invited  the  visits  of  his  most  aristocratic  ac- 
quaintances, and  no  longer  quailed  beneath  the  courtly  eye  of 
Beauclerc.  He  gave  dinners  to  Johnson,  Reynolds,  Percy, 
Bickerstaff,  and  other  friends  of  note;  and  supper  parties  to 
young  folks  of  both  sexes.  These  last  were  preceded  by  round 
games  of  cards,  at  which  there  was  more  laughter  than  skill, 
and  in  which  the  sport  was  to  cheat  each  other ; or  by  romping 
games  of  forfeits  and  blind-man’s  buff,  at  which  he  enacted 
the  lord  of  misrule.  Blackstone,  whose  chambers  were  imme- 
diately below,  and  who  was  studiously  occupied  on  his  “Com- 
mentaries,” used  to  complain  of  the  racket  made  overhead  by 
his  revelling  neighbor. 

Sometimes  Goldsmith  would  make  up  a rural  party,  com- 
posed of  four  or  five  of  his  “jolly  pigeon”  friends,  to  enjoy 
what  he  humorously  called  a “shoemaker’s  holiday.”  These 
would  assemble  at  his  chambers  in  the  morning,  to  partake  of 
a plentiful  and  rather  expensive  breakfast;  the  remains  of 
which,  with  his  customary  benevolence,  he  generally  gave  to 
some  poor  woman  in  attendance.  The  repast  ended,  the  party 
would  set  out  on  foot,  in  high  spirits,  making  extensive  ram- 
bles by  foot-paths  and  green  lanes  to  Blackheath,  Wandsworth, 
Chelsea,  Hampton  Court,  Highgate,  or  some  other  pleasant 
resort,  within  a few  miles  of  London.  A simple  but  gay  and 
heartily  relished  dinner,  at  a country  inn,  crowned  the  excur- 
sion. In  the  evening  they  strolled  back  to  town,  all  the  better 
in  health  and  spirits  for  a day  spent  in  rural  and  social  enjoy- 
ment. Occasionally,  when  extravagantly  inclined,  they  ad- 
journed from  dinner  to  drink  tea  at  the  White  Conduit  House; 
\(and,  now  and  then,  concluded  their  festive  day  by  supping  at 
'the  Grecian  or  Temple  Exchange  Coffee  Houses,  or  at  the 
Globe  Tavern,  in  Fleet  Street.  The  whole  expenses  of  the  day 
never  exceeded  a crown,  and  were  oftener  from  three  and  six- 
pence to  four  shillings ; for  the  best  part  of  their  entertainment, 
sweet  air  and  rural  scenes,  excellent  exercise  and  joyous  con- 
versation, cost  nothing. 

One  of  Goldsmith’s  humble  companions,  on  these  excursions, 
was  his  occasional  amanuensis,  Peter  Barlow,  whose  quaint 
peculiarities  afforded  much  amusement  to  the  company.  Peter 
was  poor  but  punctilious,  squaring  his  expenses  according  to 
his  means.  He  always  wore  the  same  garb ; fixed  his  regular 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


145 


expenditure  for  dinner  at  a trifling  sum,  which,  if  left  to  him- 
self, he  never  exceeded,  but  which  he  always  insisted  on  paying. 
His  oddities  always  made  him  a welcome  companion  on  the 
“shoemaker’s  holidays.”  The  dinner,  on  these  occasions,  gem 
erally  exceeded  considerably  his  tariff ; he  put  down,  however, 
no  more  than  his  regular  sum,  and  Goldsmith  made  up  the 
difference. 

Another  of  these  hangers-on,  for  whom,  on  such  occasions, 
he  was  content  to  “pay  the  shot, ’’was  his  countryman,  Glover, 
of  whom  mention  has  already  been  made,  as  one  of  the  wags 
and  sponges  of  the  Globe  and  Devil  taverns,  and  a prime  mimic 
at  the  W ednesday  Club. 

This  vagabond  genius  has  bequeathed  us  a whimsical  story 
of  one  of  his  practical  jokes  upon  Goldsmith,  in  the  course  of  a 
rural  excursion  in  the  vicinity  of  London.  They  had  dined  at 
an  inn  on  Hampstead  Heights,  and  were  descending  the  hill, 
when,  in  passing  a cottage,  they  saw  through  the  open  window 
a party  at  tea.  Goldsmith,  who  was  fatigued,  cast  a wistful 
glance  at  the  cheerful  tea-table.  4 ‘ How  I should  like  to  be  of 
that  party,”  exclaimed  he.  “Nothing  more  easy,”  replied 
Glover,  “allow  me  to  introduce  you.”  So  saying,  he  entered 
the  house  with  an  air  of  the  most  perfect  familiarity,  though 
an  utter  stranger,  and  was  followed  by  the  unsuspecting  Gold- 
smith, who  supposed,  of  course,  that  he  was  a friend  of  the 
family.  The  owner  of  the  house  rose  on  the  entrance  of  the 
strangers.  The  undaunted  Glover  shook  hands  with  him  in 
the  most  cordial  manner  possible,  "fixed  his  eye  on  one  of  the 
company  who  had  a peculiarly  good-natured  physiognomy, 
muttered  something  like  a recognition,  and  forthwith  launched 
into  an  amusing  story,  invented  at  the  moment,  of  something 
which  he  pretended  had  occurred  upon  the  road.  The  host 
supposed  the  new-comers  were  friends  of  his  guests ; the  guests 
that  they  were  friends  of  the  host.  Glover  did  not  give  them 
timo  to  find  out  the  truth.  He  followed  one  droll  story  with 
another;  brought  his  powers  of  mimicry  into  play,  and  kept 
the  company  in  a roar.  Tea  was  offered  and  accepted ; an  hour 
went  off  in  the  most  sociable  manner  imaginable,  at  the  end  of 
which  Glover  bowed  himself  and  his  companion  out  of  the 
house  with  many  facetious  last  words,  leaving  the  host  and 
his  company  to  compare  notes,  and  to  find  out  what  an  im- 
pudent intrusion  they  had  experienced. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  dismay  and  vexation  of  Goldsmith 
when  triumphantly  told  by  Glover  that  it  was  all  a hoax,  and 


146 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH . 


that  he  did  not  know  a single  soul  in  the  house.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  return  instantly  and  vindicate  himself  from  all 
participation  in  the  jest;  but  a few  words  from  his  free  and 
easy  companion  dissuaded  him.  “Doctor,”  said  he,  coolly, 

‘ ‘ we  are  unknown ; you  quite  as  much  as  I ; if  you  return  and 
tell  the  story,  it  will  he  in  the  newspapers  to-morrow;  nay, 
upon  recollection,  I remember  in  one  of  their  offices  the  face  of 
that  squinting  fellow  who  sat  in  the  corner  as  if  he  was  trea- 
suring up  my  stories  for  future  use,  and  we  shall  he  sure  of 
being  exposed ; let  us  therefore  keep  our  own  counsel.” 

This  story  was  frequently  afterward  told  hy  Glover,  with  rich 
dramatic  effect,  repeating  and  exaggerating  the  conversation, 
and  mimicking,  in  ludicrous  style,  the  embarrassment,  surprise, 
and  subsequent  indignation  of  Goldsmith. 

It  is  a trite  saying  that  a wheel  cannot  run  in  two  ruts ; nor 
a man  keep  two  opposite  sets  of  intimates.  Goldsmith  some- 
times found  his  old  friends  of  the  “ jolly  pigeon”  order  turning 
up  rather  awkwardly  when  he  was  in  company  with  his  new 
aristocratic  acquaintances.  He  gave  a whimsical  account  of 
the  sudden  apparition  of  one  of  them  at  his  gay  apartments  in 
the  Temple,  who  may  have  been  a welcome  visitor  at  his 
squalid  quarters  in  Green  Arbor  Court.  “ How  do  you  think 
he  served  me?”  said  he  to  a friend.  “Why,  sir,  after  staying 
away  two  years,  he  came  one  evening  into  my  chambers,  half 
drunk,  as  I was  taking  a glass  of  wine  with  Topham  Beauclerc 
and  General  Oglethorpe ; and  sitting  himself  down,  with  most 
intolerable  assurance  inquired  after  my  health  and  literary 
pursuits,  as  if  he  were  upon  the  most  friendly  footing.  I was 
at  first  so  much  ashamed  of  ever  having  known  such  a fellow, 
that  I stifled  my  resentment,  and  drew  him  into  a conversation 
on  such  topics  as  I knew  he  could  talk  upon ; in  which,  to  do 
him  justice,  he  acquitted  himself  very  reputably ; when  all  of 
a sudden,  as  if  recollecting  something,  he  pulled  two  papers 
out  of  his  pocket,  which  he  presented  to  me  with  great  cere- 
mony, saying,  ‘ Here,  my  dear  friend,  is  a quarter  of  a pound 
of  tea,  and  a half  pound  of  sugar,  I have  brought  you;  for 
though  it  is  not  in  my  power  at  present  to  pay  you  the  two 
guineas  you  so  generously  lent  me,  you,  nor  any  man  else, 
shall  ever  have  it  to  say  that  I want  gratitude.’  This,”  added 
Goldsmith,  “was  too  much.  I could  no  longer  keep  in  my 
feelings,  but  desired  him  to  turn  out  of  my  chambers  directly ; 
which  he  very  coolly  did,  taking  up  his  tea  and  sugar;  and  I 
never  saw  him  afterward.” 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


147 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

REDUCED  AGAIN  TO  BOOK-BUILDING — RURAL  RETREAT  AT  SHOE- 
MAKER’S PARADISE— DEATH  OF  HENRY  GOLDSMITH— TRIBUTES 
TO  HIS  MEMORY  IN  “ THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.” 

The  heedless  expenses  of  Goldsmith,  as  may  easily  he  sup- 
posed, soon  brought  him  to  the  end  of  his  “prize  money,”  but 
when  his  purse  gave  out  he  drew  upon  futurity,  obtaining 
advances  from  his  booksellers  and  loans  from  his  friends  in  the 
confident  hope  of  soon  turning  up  another  trump.  The  debts 
which  he  thus  thoughtlessly  incurred  in  consequence  of  a 
transient  gleam  of  prosperity  embarrassed  him  for  the  rest  of 
his  life ; so  that  the  success  of  the  Good-Natured  Man  may  be 
said  to  have  been  ruinous  to  him. 

He  was  soon  obliged  to  resume  his  old  craft  of  book-building, 
and  set  about  his  History  of  Rome,  undertaken  for  Davies. 

It  was  his  custom,  as  we  have  shown,  during  the  summer 
time,  when  pressed  by  a multiplicity  of  literary  jobs,  or  urged 
to  the  accomplishment  of  some  particular  task,  to  take  country 
lodgings  a few  miles  from  town,  generally  on  the  Harrow  or 
Edgeware  roads,  and  bury  himself  there  for  weeks  and  months 
together.  Sometimes  he  would  remain  closely  occupied  in  his 
room,  at  other  times  he  would  stroll  out  along  the  lanes  and 
hedge-rows,  and  taking  out  paper  and  pencil,  note  down 
thoughts  to  be  expanded  and  connected  at  home.  His  summer 
retreat  for  the  present  year,  1768,  was  a little  cottage  with  a 
garden,  pleasantly  situated  about  eight  miles  from  town  on  the 
Edgeware  road.  He  took  it  in  conjunction  with  a Mr.  Edmund 
Botts,  a barrister  and  man  of  letters,  his  neighbor  in  the  Tem- 
ple, having  rooms  immediately  opposite  him  on  the  same  floor. 
They  had  become  cordial  intimates,  and  Botts  was  one  of  those 
with  whom  Goldsmith  now  and  then  took  the  friendly  but 
pernicious  liberty  of  borrowing. 

The  cottage  which  they  had  hired  belonged  to  a rich  shoe- 
maker of  Piccadilly,  who  had  embellished  his  little  domain  of 
half  an  acre  with  statues  and  jets,  and  all  the  decorations  of 
landscape  gardening ; in  consequence  of  which  Goldsmith  gave 
it  the  name  of  The  Shoemaker’s  Paradise.  As  his  fellow- 
occupant,  Mr.  Botts,  drove  a gig,  he  sometimes,  in  an  interval 


148 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


of  literary  labor,  accompanied  him  to  town,  partook  of  a social 
dinner  there,  and  returned  with  him  in  the  evening.  On  one 
occasion,  when  they  had  probably  lingered  too  long  at  the 
table,  they  came  near  breaking  their  necks  on  their  way 
homeward  by  driving  against  a post  on  the  sidewalk,  while 
Botts  was  proving  by  the  force  of  legal  eloquence  that  they 
were  in  the  very  middle  of  the  broad  Edgeware  road. 

In  the  course  of  this  summer  Goldsmith’s  career  of  gay- 
ety  was  suddenly  brought  to  a pause  by  intelligence  of  the 
death  of  his  brother  Henry,  then  but  forty -five  years  of  age. 
He  had  led  a quiet  and  blameless  life  amid  the  scenes  of  his 
youth,  fulfilling  the  duties  of  village  pastor  with  unaffected 
piety;  conducting  the  school  at  Lissoy  with  a degree  of  in- 
dustry and  ability  that  gave  it  celebrity,  and  acquitting  him- 
self in  all  the  duties  of  life  with  undeviating  rectitude  and  the 
mildest  benevolence.  How  truly  Goldsmith  loved  and  vener- 
ated him  is  evident  in  all  his  letters  and  throughout  his  works ; 
in  which  his  brother  continually  forms  his  model  for  an  ex- 
emplification of  all  the  most  endearing  of  the  Christian 
virtues ; yet  his  affection  at  his  death  was  embittered  by  the 
fear  that  he  died  with  some  doubt  upon  his  mind  of  the 
warmth  of  his  affection.  Goldsmith  had  been  urged  by  his 
friends  in  Ireland,  since  his  elevation  in  the  world,  to  use  his 
influence  with  the  great,  which  they  supposed  to  be  all  power- 
ful, in  favor  of  Henry,  to  obtain  for  him  church  preferment. 
He  did  exert  himself  as  far  as  his  diffident  nature  would 
permit,  but  without  success;  we  have  seen  that,  in  the  case 
of  the  Earl  of  Northumberland,  when,  as  Lord  Lieutenant  of 
Ireland,  that  nobleman  proffered  him  his  patronage,  he  asked 
nothing  for  himself,  but  only  spoke  on  behalf  of  his  brother. 
Still  some  of  his  friends,  ignorant  of  what  he  had  done  and  of 
how  little  he  was  able  to  do,  accused  him  of  negligence.  It  is 
not  likely,  however,  that  his  amiable  and  estimable  brother 
joined  in  the  accusation. 

To  the  tender  and  melancholy  recollections  of  his  early  days 
awakened  by  the  death  of  this  loved  companion  of  his  child- 
hood, we  may  attribute  some  of  the  most  heartfelt  passages  in 
his  “ Deserted  Village.”  Much  of  that  poem,  we  are  told,  was 
composed  this  summer,  in  the  course  of  solitary  strolls  about 
the  green  lanes  and  beautifully  rural  scenes  of  the  neighbor- 
hood ; and  thus  much  of  the  softness  and  sweetness  of  English 
landscape  became  blended  with  the  ruder  features  of  Lissoy. 
It  was  in  these  lonely  and  subdued  moments,  when  tender 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


149 


regret  was  half  mingled  with  self-upbraiding,  that  he  poured 
forth  that  homage  of  the  heart,  rendered  as  it  were  at  the 
grave  of  his  brother.  The  picture  of  the  village  pastor  in  this 
poem,  which,  we  have  already  hinted,  was  taken  in  part  from 
the  character  of  his  father,  embodied  likewise  the  recollections 
of  his  brother  Henry ; for  the  natures  of  the  father  and  son 
seem  to  have  been  identical.  In  the  following  lines,  however, 
Goldsmith  evidently  contrasted  the  quiet,  settled  life  of  his 
brother,  passed  at  home  in  the  benevolent  exercise  of  the 
Christian  duties,  with  his  own  restless,  vagrant  career : 

“ Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 

Nor  e’er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change  his  place.” 

To  us  the  whole  character  seems  traced  as  it  were  in  an  expia- 
tory spirit ; as  if,  conscious  of  his  own  wandering  restlessness, 
he  sought  to  humble  himself  at  the  shrine  of  excellence  which 
he  had  not  been  able  to  practise : 

“ At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 

His  looks  adorn’d  the  venerable  place; 

Truth  from  his  lips  prevail’d  with  double  sway, 

And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remain’d  to  pray. 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 

With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran; 

Even  children  follow'd,  with  endearing  wile, 

And  pluck’d  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man’s  smile: 

His  ready  smile  a parent’s  warmth  express’d, 

Their  welfare  pleas’d  him,  and  their  cares  distress’d; 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
******  *** 

And  as  a bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 

He  tried  each  art,  reprov’d  each  dull  delay, 

Allur’d  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 


CHAPTER  XXY. 

DINNER  AT  BICKERSTAFF’S— HIFFERNAN  AND  HIS  IMPECUNIOSITY— 
KENRICK’S  EPIGRAM  — JOHNSON’S  CONSOLATION  — GOLDSMITH’S 
TOILET — THE  BLOOM-COLORED  COAT — NEW  ACQUAINTANCES — 
THE  HORNECKS — A TOUCH  OF  POETRY  AND  PASSION— THE 
JESSAMY  BRIDE. 

In  October  Goldsmith  returned  to  town  and  resumed  his 
usual  haunts.  We  hear  of  him  at  a dinner  given  by  his 


150 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


countryman,  Isaac  Bickerstaff,  author  of  “ Love  in  a Village,* 
“Lionel  and  Clarissa,”  and  other  successful  dramatic  pieces. 
The  dinner  was  to  be  followed  by  the  reading  by  Bickerstaff 
of  a new  play.  Among  the  guests  was  one  Paul  Hiffernan, 
likewise  an  Irishman;  somewhat  idle  and  intemperate;  who 
lived  nobody  knew  how  nor  where,  sponging  wherever  he  had 
a chance,  and  often  or  course  upon  Goldsmith,  who  was  ever 
the  vagabond’s  friend,  or  rather  victim.  Hiffernan  was  some- 
thing of  a physician,  and  elevated  the  emptiness  of  his  purse 
into  the  dignity  of  a disease,  which  he  termed  impecuniosity , 
and  against  which  he  claimed  a right  to  call  for  relief  from 
the  healthier  purses  of  his  friends.  He  was  a scribbler  for  the 
newspapers,  and  latterly  a dramatic  critic,  which  had  proba- 
bly gained  him  an  invitation  to  the  dinner  and  reading.  The 
wine  and  wassail,  however,  befogged  his  senses.  Scarce  had 
the  author  got  into  the  second  act  of  his  play,  when  Hiffernan 
began  to  nod,  and  at  length  snored  outright.  Bickerstaff  was 
embarrassed,  but  continued  to  read  in  a more  elevated  tone. 
The  louder  he  read,  the  louder  Hiffernan  snored;  until  the 
author  came  to  a pause.  “Never  mind  the  brute,  Bick,  but 
go  on,”  cried  Goldsmith.  “ He  would  have  served  Homer  just 
so  if  he  were  here  and  reading  his  own  works.” 

Kenrick,  Goldsmith’s  old  enemy,  travestied  this  anecdote  in 
the  following  lines,  pretending  that  the  poet  had  compared  his 
countryman  Bickerstaff  to  Homer. 

“ What  are  your  Bretons,  Romans,  Grecians, 

Compared  with  thorough-bred  Milesians! 

Step  into  Griffin’s  shop,  he’ll  tell  ye 
Of  Goldsmith,  Bickerstaff,  and  Kelly  . . . 

And,  take  one  Irish  evidence  for  t’other, 

E’en  Homer’s  self  is  but  their  foster  brother.” 

Johnson  was  a rough  consoler  to  a man  when  wincing  under 
an  attack  of  this  kind.  “Never  mind,  sir,”  said  he  to  Gold- 
smith, when  he  saw  that  he  felt  the  sting.  1 4 A man  whose 
business  it  is  to  be  talked  of  is  much  helped  by  being  attacked. 
Fame,  sir,  is  a shuttlecock ; if  it  be  struck  only  at  one  end  of 
the  room,  it  will  soon  fall  to  the  ground ; to  keep  it  up,  it  must 
be  struck  at  both  ends.” 

Bickerstaff,  at  the  time  of  which  we  are  speaking,  was  in  high 
vogue,  the  associate  of  the  first  wits  of  the  day ; a few  years 
afterward  he  was  obliged  to  fly  the  country  to  escape  the 
punishment  of  an  infamous  crime.  Johnson  expressed  great 
astonishment  at  hearing  the  offence  for  which  he  had  fled. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


151 


“ Why,  sir,”  said  Thrale ; “ he  had  long  been  a suspected  man.” 
Perhaps  there  was  a knowing  look  on  the  part  of  the  eminent 
brewer,  which  provoked  a somewhat  contemptuous  reply. 
“By  those  who  look  close  to  the  ground,”  said  Johnson,  “ dirt 
will  sometimes  he  seen ; I hope  I see  things  from  a greater  dis- 
tance.” 

We  have  already  noticed  the  improvement,  or  rather  the 
increased  expense,  of  Goldsmith’s  wardrobe  since  his  eleva- 
tion into  polite  society.  “He  was  fond,”  says  one  of  his  con- 
temporaries, “of  exhibiting  his  muscular  little  person  in  the 
gayest  apparel  of  the  day,  to  which  was  added  a bag-wig  and 
sword.”  Thus  arrayed,  he  used  to  figure  about  in  the  sunshine 
in  the  Temple  Gardens,  much  to  his  own  satisfaction,  but  to 
the  amusement  of  his  acquaintances. 

Boswell,  in  his  memoirs,  has  rendered  one  of  his  suits  forever 
famous.  That  worthy,  on  the  16th  of  October  in  the  same 
year,  gave  a dinner  to  Johnson,  Goldsmith,  Reynolds,  Garrick, 
Murphy,  Bickerstaff,  and  Davies.  Goldsmith  was  generally 
apt  to  bustle  in  at  the  last  moment,  when  the  guests  were 
taking  their  seats  at  table,  but  on  this  occasion  he  was  unusu- 
ally early.  While  waiting  for  some  lingerers  to  arrive,  “he 
strutted  about,”  says  Boswell,  “bragging  of  his  dress,  and,  I 
believe,  was  seriously  vain  of  it,  for  his  mind  was  undoubtedly 
prone  to  such  impressions.  ‘ Come,  come,  ’ said  Garrick,  ‘ talk 
no  more  of  that.  You  are  perhaps  the  worst — eh,  eh?’  Gold- 
smith was  eagerly  attempting  to  interrupt  him,  when  Garrick 
went  on,  laughing  ironically,  ‘ Nay,  you  will  always  look  like 
a gentleman ; but  I am  talking  of  your  being  well  or  ill  dressecV 
‘Well,  let  me  tell  you,’  said  Goldsmith,  ‘when  the  tailor 
brought  home  my  bloom-colored  coat,  he  said,  “Sir,  I have  a 
favor  to  beg  of  you ; when  anybody  asks  you  who  made  your 
clothes,  be  pleased  to  mention  John  Filby,  at  the  Harrow,  in 
Water  Lane.”’  ‘Why,  sir,’  cried  Johnson,  ‘ that  was  because 
he  knew  the  strange  color  would  attract  crowds  to  gaze  at  it, 
and  thus  they  might  hear  of  him,  and  see  how  well  he  could 
make  a coat  of  so  absurd  a color.’  ” 

But  though  Goldsmith  might  permit  this  raillery  on  the  part 
of  his  friends,  he  was  quick  to  resent  any  personalities  of  the 
kind  from  strangers.  As  he  was  one  day  walking  the  Strand 
in  grand  array  with  bag-wig  and  sword,  he  excited  the  merri- 
ment of  two  coxcombs,  one  of  wdiom  called  to  the  other  to 
“look  at  that  fly  with  a long  pin  stuck  through  it.”  Stung  to 
the  quick,  Goldsmith’s  first  retort  was  to  caution  the  passers- 


152 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


by  to  be  on  their  guard  against  ‘ ‘ that  brace  of  disguised  pick 
pockets” — his  next  was  to  step  into  the  middle  of  the  street, 
where  there  was  room  for  action,  half  draw  his  sword,  and 
beckon  the  joker,  who  was  armed  in  like  manner,  to  follow 
him.  This  was  literally  a war  of  wit  which  the  other  had  not 
anticipated.  He  had  no  inclination  to  push  the  joke  to  such 
an  extreme,  but  abandoning  the  ground,  sneaked  off  with  his 
brother  wag  amid  the  liootings  of  the  spectators. 

This  proneness  to  finery  in  dress,  however,  which  Boswell 
and  others  of  Goldsmith’s  contemporaries,  who  did  not  under- 
stand the  secret  plies  of  his  character,  attributed  to  vanity, 
arose,  we  are  convinced,  from  a widely  different  motive.  It 
was  from  a painful  idea  of  his  own  personal  defects,  which  had 
been  cruelly  stamped  upon  his  mind  in  his  boyhood  by  the 
sneers  and  jeers  of  his  playmates,  and  had  been  ground  deeper 
into  it  by  rude  speeches  made  to  him  in  every  step  of  his  strug- 
gling career,  until  it  had  become  a constant  cause  of  awkward- 
ness and  embarrassment.  This  he  had  experienced  the  more 
sensibly  since  his  reputation  had  elevated  him  into  polite 
society ; and  he  was  constantly  endeavoring  by  the  aid  of  dress 
to  acquire  that  personal  acceptability , if  we  may  use  the 
phrase,  which  nature  had  denied  him.  If  ever  he  betrayed  a 
little  self-complacency  on  first  turning  out  in  a new  suit,  it  may 
perhaps  have  been  because  he  felt  as  if  he  had  achieved  a tri  - 
umph over  his  ugliness. 

There  were  circumstances  too  about  the  time  of  which  we 
are  treating  which  may  have  rendered  Goldsmith  more  than 
usually  attentive  to  his  personal  appearance.  He  had  recently 
made  the  acquaintance  of  a most  agreeable  family  from  Devon- 
shire, which  he  met  at  the  house  of  his  friend,  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds. It  consisted  of  Mrs.  Horneck,  widow  of  Captain  Kane 
Horneck ; two  daughters,  seventeen  and  nineteen  years  of  age. 
and  an  only  son,  Charles,  the  Captain  in  Lace , as  his  sisters 
playfully  and  somewhat  proudly  called  him,  he  having  lately 
entered  the  Guards.  The  daughters  are  described  as  uncom- 
monly beautiful,  intelligent,  sprightly,  and  agreeable.  Cath- 
arine, the  eldest,  went  among  her  friends  by  the  name  of 
Little  Comedy,  indicative,  very  probably,  of  her  disposition. 
She  was  engaged  to  William  Henry  Bunbury,  second  son  of  a 
Suffolk  baronet.  The  hand  and  heart  of  her  sister  Mary  were 
yet  unengaged,  although  she  bore  the  by-name  among  her 
friends  of  the  Jessamy  Bride.  This  family  was  prepared,  by 
their  intimacy  with  Reynolds  and  his  sister,  to  appreciate  the 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


153 


merits  of  Goldsmith.  The  poet  had  always  been  a chosen 
friend  of  the  eminent  painter,  and  Miss  Reynolds,  as  we  have 
shown,  ever  since  she  had  heard  his  poem  of  “The  Traveller” 
read  aloud,  had  ceased  to  consider  him  ugly.  The  Hornecks 
were  equally  capable  of  forgetting  his  person  in  admiring  his 
works.  On  becoming  acquainted  with  him,  too,  they  were  de- 
lighted with  his  guileless  simplicity,  his  buoyant  good-nature 
and  his  innate  benevolence,  and  an  enduring  intimacy  soon 
sprang  up  between  them.  For  once  poor  Goldsmith  had  met 
with  polite  society  with  which  he  was  perfectly  at  home,  and 
by  which  he  was  fully  appreciated ; for  once  he  had  met  with 
lovely  women,  to  whom  his  ugly  features  were  not  repulsive. 
A proof  of  the  easy  and  playful  terms  on  which  he  was  with 
them  remains  in  a whimsical  epistle  in  verse,  of  which  the  fol- 
lowing was  the  occasion.  A dinner  was  to  be  given  to  their 
family  by  a Dr.  Baker,  a friend  of  their  mother’s,  at  which 
Reynolds  and  Angelica  Kauffman  were  to  be  present.  The 
young  ladies  were  eager  to  have  Goldsmith  of  the  party,  and 
their  intimacy  with  Dr.  Baker  allowing  them  to  take  the 
liberty,  they  wrote  a joint  invitation  to  the  poet  at  the  last 
moment.  It  came  too  late,  and  drew  from  him  the  following 
reply;  on  the  top  of  which  was  scrawled,  “This  is  a poeml 
This  is  a copy  of  verses !” 


Your  mandate  I got, 

Yon  may  all  go  to  pot; 

Had  your  senses  been  right, 
You’d  have  sent  before  night- 
So  tell  Horneck  and  Nesbitt, 
And  Baker  and  his  bit, 

And  Kauffman  beside, 

And  the  Jessamy  Bride , 

With  the  rest  of  the  crew, 
The  Reynoldses  too, 


Little  Comedy' s face, 

And  the  Captain  in  Lace — 
Tell  each  other  to  rue 
Your  Devonshire  crew, 

For  sending  so  late 
To  one  of  my  state. 

But  ’tis  Reynolds’s  way 
From  wisdom  to  stray, 

And  Angelica’s  whim 
To  befrolic  like  him ; 


But  alas!  your  good  worships,  how  could  they  be  wiser, 
When  both  have  been  spoil’d  in  to-day’s  Advertiser ? * 


* The  following  lines  had  appeared  in  that  day’s  Advertiser,  on  the  portrait  of 
Sir  Joshua  by  Angelica  Kauffman: 

While  fair  Angelica,  with  matchless  grace, 

Paints  Conway’s  burly  form  and  Stanhope’s  face; 

Our  hearts  to  beauty  willing  homage  pay. 

We  praise,  admire,  and  gaze  our  souls  away. 

But  when  the  likeness  she  hath  done  for  thee, 

O Reynolds!  with  astonishment  we  see, 

Forced  to  submit,  with  all  our  pride  we  own, 

Such  strength,  such  harmony  excelled  by  none. 

And  thou  art  rivalled  by  thyself  alone. 


154 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


It  has  been  intimated  that  the  intimacy  of  poor  Goldsmith 
with  the  Miss  Hornecks,  which  began  in  so  sprightly  a vein, 
gradually  assumed  something  of  a more  tender  nature,  and  that 
he  was  not  insensible  to  the  fascinations  of  the  younger  sister. 
This  may  account  for  some  of  the  phenomena  which  about 
this  time  appeared  in  his  wardrobe  and  toilet.  During  the 
first  year  of  his  acquaintance  with  these  lovely  girls,  the  tell- 
tale book  of  his  tailor,  Mr.  William  Filby,  displays  entries  of 
four  or  five  full  suits,  beside  separate  articles  of  dress. 
Among  the  items  we  find  a green  half-trimmed  frock  and 
breeches,  lined  with  silk;  a queen’s  blue  dress  suit;  a half' 
dress  suit  of  ratteen,  lined  with  satin ; a pair  of  silk  stocking 
breeches,  and  another  pair  of  a bloom  color.  Alas!  poor 
Goldsmith ! how  much  of  this  silken  finery  was  dictated,  not 
by  vanity,  but  humble  consciousness  of  thy  defects;  how 
much  of  it  was  to  atone  for  the  uncouthness  of  thy  person, 
and  to  win  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  Jessamy  Bride! 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

GOLDSMITH  IN  THE  TEMPLE— JUDGE  DAY  AND  GRATTAN— LABOR 
AND  DISSIPATION— PUBLICATION  OF  THE  ROMAN  HISTORY- 
OPINIONS  OF  IT— HISTORY  OF  ANIMATED  NATURE  — TEMPLE 
ROOKERY— ANECDOTES  OF  A SPIDER. 

In  the  winter  of  1768-69  Goldsmith  occupied  himself  at  his 
quarters  in  the  Temple,  slowly  “ building  up”  his  Roman 
History.  We  have  pleasant  views  of  him  in  this  learned  and 
half-cloistered  retreat  of  wits  and  lawyers  and  legal  students, 
in  the  reminiscences  of  Judge  Day  of  the  Irish  Bench,  who  in 
his  advanced  age  delighted  to  recall  the  days  of  his  youth, 
when  he  was  a Templar,  and  to  speak  of  the  kindness  with 
which  he  and  his  fellow-student,  Grattan,  were  treated  by  the 
poet.  “I  was  just  arrived  from  college,”  said  he,  “full 
freighted  with  academic  gleanings,  and  our  author  did  not 
disdain  to  receive  from  me  some  opinions  and  hints  toward  his 
Greek  and  Roman  histories.  Being  then  a young  man,  I felt 
much  flattered  by  the  notice  of  so  celebrated  a person.  He 
took  great  delight  in  the  conversation  of  Grattan,  whose 
brilliancy  in  the  morning  of  life  furnished  full  earnest  of  the 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


155 


unrivalled  splendor  which  awaited  his  meridian ; and  finding 
us  dwelling  together  in  Essex  Court,  near  himself,  where  he 
frequently  visited  my  immortal  friend,  his  warm  heart 
became  naturally  prepossessed  toward  the  associate  of  one 
whom  he  so  much  admired.  ” 

The  judge  goes  on,  in  his  reminiscences,  to  give  a picture  of 
Goldsmith’s  social  habits,  similar  in  style  to  those  already 
furnished.  He  frequented  much  the  Grecian  Coffee-House, 
then  the  favorite  resort  of  the  Irish  and  Lancashire  Templars. 
He  delighted  in  collecting  his  friends  around  him  at  evening 
parties  at  his  chambers,  where  he  entertained  them  with  a 
cordial  and  unostentatious  hospitality.  “ Occasionally,  ” adds 
the  judge,  “he  amused  them  with  his  flute,  or  with  whist, 
neither  of  which  he  played  well,  particularly  the  latter,  but, 
on  losing  his  money,  he  never  lost  his  temper.  In  a run  of 
bad  luck  and  worse  play,  he  would  fling  his  cards  upon  the 
floor  and  exclaim,  Byefore  George,  I ought  forever  to  re- 
nounce thee,  fickle,  faithless  Fortune.  ’ ” 

The  judge  was  aware  at  the  time  that  all  the  learned  labor 
of  poor  Goldsmith  upon  his  Roman  History  was  mere  hack 
work  to  recruit  his  exhausted  finances.  ‘ ‘ His  purse  replen- 
ished,” adds  he,  “by  labors  of  this  kind,  the  season  of  relaxa- 
tion and  pleasure  took  its  turn,  in  attending  the  theatres, 
Ranelagh,  Vauxhall,  and  other  scenes  of  gayety  and  amuse- 
ment. Whenever  his  funds  were  dissipated — and  they  fled 
more  rapidly  from  being  the  dupe  of  many  artful  persons, 
male  and  female,  who  practised  upon  his  benevolence — he 
returned  to  his  literary  labors,  and  shut  himself  up  from 
society  to  provide  fresh  matter  for  his  bookseller,  and  fresh 
supplies  for  himself.  ” 

How  completely  had  the  young  student  discerned  the  charac- 
teristics of  poor,  genial,  generous,  drudging,  holiday -loving 
Goldsmith ; toiling  that  he  might  play ; earning  his  bread  by 
the  sweat  of  his  brains,  and  then  throwing  it  out  of  the 
window. 

The  Roman  History  was  published  in  the  middle  of  May,  in 
two  volumes  of  five  hundred  pages  each.  It  was  brought  out 
without  parade  or  pretension,  and  was  announced  as  for  the 
use  of  schools  and  colleges;  but,  though  a work  written  for 
bread,  not  fame,  such  is  its  ease,  perspicuity,  good  sense,  and 
the  delightful  simplicity  of  its  style,  that  it  was  well  received 
by  the  critics,  commanded  a prompt  and  extensive  sale,  and 
has  ever  since  remained  in  the  hands  of  young  and  old. 


156 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Johnson,  who,  as  we  have  before  remarked,  rarely  praised  of 
dispraised  things  by  halves,  broke  forth  in  a warm  eulogy  of 
the  author  and  the  work,  in  a conversation  with  Boswell,  to 
the  great  astonishment  of  the  latter.  “Whether  we  take 
Goldsmith,”  said  he,  “as  a poet,  as  a comic  writer,  or  as  an 
historian,  he  stands  in  the  first  class.”  Boswell. — “An  his- 
torian ! My  dear  sir,  you  surely  will  not  rank  his  compilation 
of  the  Roman  History  with  the  works  of  other  historians  of 
this  age.”  Johnson. — “ Why,  who  are  before  him?”  Boswell. 
— “Hume — Robertson — Lord  Lyttelton.”  Johnson  (his  antip- 
athy against  the  Scotch  beginning,  to  rise). — “I  have  not  read 
Hume;  but  doubtless  Goldsmith’s  History  is  better  than  the 
verbiage  of  Robertson,  or  the  foppery  of  Dalrymple.”  Boswell. 
— “Will  you  not  admit  the  superiority  of  Robertson,  in  whose 
history  we  find  such  penetration,  such  painting?”  Johnson.— 
4 4 Sir,  you  must  consider  how  that  penetration  and  that  paint- 
ing are  employed.  It  is  not  history,  it  is  imagination.  He 
who  describes  what  he  never  saw,  draws  from  fancy.  Robert- 
son paints  minds  as  Sir  Joshua  paints  faces,  in  a history-piece; 
he  imagines  an  heroic  countenance.  You  must  look  upon 
Robertson’s  work  as  romance,  and  try  it  by  that  standard. 
History  it  is  not.  Besides,  sir,  it  is  the  great  excellence  of  a 
writer  to  put  into  his  book  as  much  as  his  book  will  hold. 
Goldsmith  has  done  this  in  his  history.  Now  Robertson  might 
have  put  twice  as  much  in  his  book.  Robertson  is  like  a man 
who  has  packed  gold  in  wool ; the  wool  takes  up  more  room 
than  the  gold.  No,  sir,  I always  thought  Robertson  would  be 
crushed  with  his  own  weight — would  be  buried  under  his  own 
ornaments.  Goldsmith  tells  you  shortly  all  you  want  to  know ; 
Robertson  detains  you  a great  deal  too  long.  No  man  will  read 
Robertson’s  cumbrous  detail  a second  time;  but  Goldsmith’s 
plain  narrative  will  please  again  and  again.  I would  say  to 
Robertson  what  an  old  tutor  of  a college  said  to  one  of  his 
pupils,  4 Read  over  your  compositions,  and  whenever  you  meet 
with  a passage  which  you  think  is  particularly  fine,  strike  it 
out ! ’ Goldsmith’s  abridgment  is  better  than  that  of  Lucius 
Florus  or  Eutropius ; and  I will  venture  to  say,  that  if  you 
compare  him  with  Vertot  in  the  same  places  of  the  Roman  His- 
tory, you  will  find  that  he  excels  Vertot.  Sir,  he  has  the  art 
of  compiling,  and  of  saying  everything  he  has  to  say  in  a 
pleasing  manner.  He  is  now  writing  a Natural  History,  and 
will  make  it  as  entertaining  as  a Persian  tale.” 

The  Natural  History  to  which  Johnson  alluded  was  the 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


157 


“ History  of  Animated  Nature,”  which  Goldsmith  commenced 
in  1769,  under  an  engagement  with  Griffin,  the  bookseller,  to 
complete  it  as  soon  as  possible  in  eight  volumes,  each  contain- 
ing upward  of  four  hundred  pages,  in  pica ; a hundred  guineas 
to  be  paid  to  the  author  on  the  delivery  of  each  volume  in 
manuscript. 

He  was  induced  to  engage  in  this  work  by  the  urgent  solici- 
tations of  the  booksellers,  who  had  been  struck  by  the  sterling 
merits  and  captivating  style  of  an  introduction  which  he  wrote 
to  Brookes’s  Natural  History.  It  was  Goldsmith’s  intention 
originally  to  make  a translation  of  Pliny,  with  a popular  com- 
mentary ; but  the  appearance  of  Buff  on’s  work  induced  him  to 
change  his  plan,  and  make  use  of  that  author  for  a guide  and 
model. 

Cumberland,  speaking,  of  this  work,  observes:  44 Distress 
drove  Goldsmith  upon  undertakings  neither  congenial  with  his 
studies  nor  worthy  of  his  talents.  I remember  him  when,  in 
his  chambers  in  the  Temple,  he  showed  me  the  beginning  of  his 
4 Animated  Nature;’  it  was  with  a sigh,  such  as  genius  draws 
when  hard  necessity  diverts  it  from  its  bent  to  drudge  for 
bread,  and  talk  of  birds,  and  beasts,  and  creeping  things, 
which  Pidock’s  showman  would  have  done  as  well.  Poor  fel- 
low, he  hardly  knows  an  ass  from  a mule,  nor  a turkey  from  a 
goose,  but  when  he  sees  it  on  the  table.” 

Others  of  Goldsmith’s  friends  entertained  similar  ideas  with 
respect  to  his  fitness  for  the  task,  and  they  were  apt  now  and 
then  to  banter  him  on  the  subject,  and  to  amuse  themselves 
with  his  easy  credulity.  The  custom  among  the  natives  of 
Otaheite  of  eating  dogs  being  once  mentioned  in  company, 
Goldsmith  observed  that  a similar  custom  prevailed  in  China; 
that  a dog-butcher  is  as  common  there  as  any  other  butcher; 
and  that  when  he  walks  abroad  all  the  dogs  fall  on  him.  John- 
son.— u That  is  not  owing  to  his  killing  dogs;  sir,  I remember 
a butcher  at  Lichfield,  whom  a dog  that  was  in  the  house 
where  I lived  always  attacked.  It  is  the  smell  of  carnage 
which  provokes  this,  let  the  animals  he  has  killed  be  what 
they  may.”  Goldsmith.— “ Yes,  there  is  a general  abhorrence 
in  animals  at  the  signs  of  massacre.  If  you  put  a tub  full  of 
blood  into  a stable,  the  horses  are  likely  to  go  mad.”  Johnson. 
—“I  doubt  that.”  Goldsmith. — 4 4 Nay,  sir,  it  is  a fact  well 
authenticated.”  Thrale. — 44  You  had  better  prove  it  before  you 
put  it  into  your  book  on  Natural  History.  You  may  do  it  in 
my  stable  if  you  will.”  Johnson. — 44  Nay,  sir,  I would  not 


158 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


have  him  prove  it.  If  he  is  content  to  take  his  information 
from  others,  lie  may  get  through  his  book  with  little  trouble, 
and  without  much  endangering  his  reputation.  But  if  he 
makes  experiments  for  so  comprehensive  a book  as  his,  there 
would  be  no  end  to  them ; his  erroneous  assertions  would  fall 
then  upon  himself ; and  he  might  be  blamed  for  not  having 
made  experiments  as  to  every  particular.” 

Johnson’s  original  prediction,  however,  with  respect  to  this 
work,  that  Goldsmith  would  make  it  as  entertaining  as  a Per- 
sian tale,  was  verified ; and  though  much  of  it  was  borrowed 
from  Buff  on,  and  but  little  of  it  written  from  his  own  observa- 
tion ; though  it  was  by  no  means  profound,  and  was  charge- 
able with  many  errors,  yet  the  charms  of  his  style  and  the  play 
of  his  happy  disposition  throughout  have  continued  to  render 
it  far  more  popular  and  readable  than  many  works  on  the  sub- 
ject of  much  greater  scope  and  science.  Cumberland  was  mis- 
taken, however,  in  his  notion  of  Goldsmith’s  ignorance  and 
lack  of  observation  as  to  the  characteristics  of  animals.  On 
the  contrary,  he  was  a minute  and  shrewd  observer  of  them ; 
but  he  observed  them  with  the  eye  of  a poet  and  moralist  as 
well  as  a naturalist.  We  quote  two  passages  from  his  works 
illustrative  of  this  fact,  and  we  do  so  the  more  readily  because 
they  are  in  a manner  a part  of  his  history,  and  give  us  another 
peep  into  his  private  life  in  the  Temple ; of  his  mode  of  occupy- 
ing himself  in  his  lonely  and  apparently  idle  moments,  and  of 
another  class  of  acquaintances  which  he  made  there. 

Speaking  in  his  4 ‘Animated  Nature”  of  the  habitudes  of 
Rooks,  “ I have  often  amused  myself,”  says  he,  “ with  observ- 
ing their  plans  of  policy  from  my  window  in  the  Temple,  that 
looks  upon  a grove,  where  they  have  made  a colony  in  the 
midst  of  a city.  At  the  commencement  of  spring  the  rookery, 
which,  during  the  continuance  of  winter,  seemed  to  have  been 
deserted,  or  only  guarded  by  about  five  or  six,  like  old  soldiers 
in  a garrison,  now  begins  to  be  once  more  frequented ; and  in  a 
short  time,  all  the  bustle  and  hurry  of  business  will  be  fairly 
commenced.” 

The  other  passage,  which  we  take  the  liberty  to  quote  at  some 
length,  is  from  an  admirable  paper  in  the  Bee,  and  relates  to 
the  House  Spider. 

“ Of  all  the  solitary  insects  I have  ever  remarked,  the  spider 
is  the  most  sagacious,  and  its  motions  to  me,  who  have  atten- 
tively considered  them,  seem  almost  to  exceed  belief.  ...  I 
perceived,  about  four  years  ago,  a large  spider  in  one  comer  of 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


159 


my  room  making  its  web;  and,  though  the  maid  frequently 
levelled  her  broom  against  the  labors  of  the  little  animal,  I 
had  the  good  fortune  then  to  prevent  its  destruction,  and 
I may  say  it  more  than  paid  me  by  the  entertainment  it 
afforded. 

u In  three  days  the  web  was,  with  incredible  diligence,  com- 
pleted ; nor  could  I avoid  thinking  that  the  insect  seemed  to 
exult  in  its  new  abode.  It  frequently  traversed  it  round, 
examined  the  strength  of  every  part  of  it,  retired  into  its  hole, 
and  came  out  very  frequently.  The  first  enemy,  however,  it 
had  to  encounter  was  another  and  a much  larger  spider, 
which,  having  no  web  of  its  own,  and  having  probably  ex- 
hausted all  its  stock  in  former  labors  of  this  kind,  came  to 
invade  the  property  of  its  neighbor.  Soon,  then,  a terrible 
encounter  ensued,  in  which  the  invader  seemed  to  have  the 
victory,  and  the  laborious  spider  was  obliged  to  take  refuge  in 
its  hole.  Upon  this  I perceived  the  victor  using  every  art  to 
draw  the  enemy  from  its  stronghold.  He  seemed  to  go  off, 
but  quickly  returned ; and  when  he  found  all  arts  in  vain, 
began  to  demolish  the  new  web  without  mercy.  This  brought 
on  another  battle,  and,  contrary  to  my  expectations,  the 
laborious  spider  became  conqueror,  and  fairly  killed  his  an- 
tagonist. 

“Now,  then,  in  peaceable  possession  of  what  was  justly  its 
own,  it  waited  three  days  with  the  utmost  patience,  repairing 
the  breaches  of  its  web,  and  taking  no  sustenance  that  I could 
perceive.  At  last,  however,  a large  blue  fly  fell  into  the  snare, 
and  struggled  hard  to  get  loose.  The  spider  gave  it  leave  to 
entangle  itself  as  much  as  possible,  but  it  seemed  to  be  too 
strong  for  the  cobweb.  I must  own  I was  greatly  surprised 
when  I saw  the  spider  immediately  sally  out,  and  in  less  than 
a minute  weave  a new  net  round  its  captive,  by  which  the 
motion  of  its  wings  was  stopped;  and  when  it  was  fairly 
hampered  in  this  manner  it  was  seized  and  dragged  into  the 
hole. 

“ In  this  manner  it  lived,  in  a precarious  state;  and  nature 
seemed  to  have  fitted  it  for  such  a life,  for  upon  a single  fly  it 
subsisted  for  more  than  a week.  I once  put  a wasp  into  the 
net;  but  when  the  spider  came  out  in  order  to  seize  it,  as 
usual,  upon  perceiving  what  kind  of  an  enemy  it  had  to  deal 
with,  it  instantly  broke  all  the  bands  that  held  it  fast,  and 
contributed  all  that  lay  in  its  power  to  disengage  so  formidable 
an  antagonist.  When  the  wasp  was  set  at  liberty,  I expected 


100 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


tho  spider  would  have  set  about  repairing  the  breaches  that 
were  made  in  its  net;  but  those,  it  seems,  were  irreparable: 
wherefore  the  cobweb  was  now  entirely  forsaken,  and  a new 
one  begun,  which  was  completed  in  the  usual  time. 

4 4 1 had  now  a mind  to  try  how  many  cobwebs  a single  spider 
could  furnish ; wherefore  I destroyed  this,  and  the  insect  set 
about  another.  When  I destroyed  the  other  also,  its  whole 
stock  seemed  entirely  exhausted,  and  it  could  spin  no  more. 
The  arts  it  made  use  of  to  support  itself,  now  deprived  of  its 
great  means  of  subsistence,  were  indeed  surprising.  I have 
seen  it  roll  up  its  legs  like  a ball,  and  lie  motionless  for  hours 
together,  but  cautiously  watching  all  the  time : when  a fly 
happened  to  approach  sufficiently  near,  it  would  dart  out  all 
at  once,  and  often  seize  its  prey. 

4 4 Of  this  life,  however,  it  soon  began  to  grow  weary,  and 
resolved  to  invade  the  possession  of  some  other  spider,  since  it 
could  not  make  a web  of  its  own.  It  formed  an  attack  upon  a 
neighboring  fortification  with  great  vigor,  and  at  first  was  as 
vigorously  repulsed.  Not  daunted,  however,  with  one  defeat, 
in  this  manner  it  continued  to  lay  siege  to  another’s  web  for 
three  days,  and  at  length,  having  killed  the  defendant,  actually 
took  possession.  When  smaller  flies  happen  to  fall  into  the 
snare,  the  spider  does  not  sally  out  at  once,  but  very  patiently 
waits  till  it  is  sure  of  them ; for,  upon  his  immediately  ap- 
proaching, the  terror  of  his  appearance  might  give  the  captive 
strength  sufficient  to  get  loose ; the  manner,  then,  is  to  wait 
patiently,  till,  by  ineffectual  and  impotent  struggles,  the  cap- 
tive lias  wasted  all  its  strength,  and  then  he  becomes  a certain 
and  easy  conquest. 

4 4 The  insect  I am  now  describing  lived  three  years;  every 
year  it  changed  its  skin  and  got  a new  set  of  legs.  I have 
sometimes  plucked  off  a leg,  which  grew  again  in  two  or  three 
days.  At  first  it  dreaded  my  approach  to  its  web,  but  at  last 
it  became  so  familiar  as  to  take  a fly  out  of  my  hand ; and, 
upon  my  touching  any  part  of  the  web,  would  immediately 
Wave  its  hole,  prepared  either  for  a defence  or  an  attack.” 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


161 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

HONORS  AT  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY — LETTER  TO  HIS  BROTHER 
MAURICE  — FAMILY  FORTUNES  — JANE  CONTARINE  AND  THE 
MINIATURE — PORTRAITS  AND  ENGRAVINGS — SCHOOL  ASSOCIA- 
TIONS—JOHNSON  AND  GOLDSMITH  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

The  latter  part  of  the  year  1768  had  been  made  memorable 
in  the  world  of  taste  by  the  institution  of  the  Royal  Academy 
of  Arts,  under  the  patronage  of  the  King,  and  the  direction  of 
forty  of  the  most  distinguished  artists.  Reynolds,  who  had 
been  mainly  instrumental  in  founding  it,  had  been  unani- 
mously elected  president,  and  had  thereupon  received  the 
honor  of  knighthood.*  Johnson  was  so  delighted  with  his 
friend’s  elevation,  that  he  broke  through  a rule  of  total  absti- 
nence with  respect  to  wine,  which  he  had  maintained  for 
several  years,  and  drank  bumpers  on  the  occasion.  Sir  Joshua 
eagerly  sought  to  associate  his  old  and  valued  friends  with 
him  in  his  new  honors,  and  it  is  supposed  to  be  through  his 
suggestions  that,  on  the  first  establishment  of  professorships, 
which  took  place  in  December,  1769,  Johnson  was  nominated 
to  that  of  Ancient  Literature,  and  Goldsmith  to  that  of  His- 
tory. They  were  mere  honorary  titles,  without  emolument, 
but  gave  distinction,  from  the  noble  institution  to  which  they 
appertained.  They  also  gave  the  possessors  honorable  places 
at  the  annual  banquet,  at  which  were  assembled  many  of  the 
most  distinguished  persons  of  rank  and  talent,  all  proud  to  be 
classed  among  the  patrons  of  the  arts. 

The  following  letter  of  Goldsmith  to  his  brother  alludes  to 
the  foregoing  appointment,  and  to  a small  legacy  bequeathed 
to  him  by  his  uncle  Contarine. 

**  To  Mr.  Maurice  Goldsmith , at  James  Lawder's,  Esq.,  at  Kil - 

more,  near  Carrick-on-Shannon. 

“ January,  1770. 

1 1 Dear  Brother  ° I should  have  answered  your  letter  sooner, 
but,  in  truth,  I am  not  fond  of  thinking  of  the  necessities  of 


* Wc  must  apologize  for  the  anachronism  we  have  permitted  ourselves  in  the 
course  of  this  memoir,  in  speaking  of  Reynolds  as  Sir  Joshua , when  treating  of 
circumstances  which  occurred  prior  to  his  being  dubbed;  but  it  is  so  customary  to 
speak  of  him  by  that  title,  that  we  found  it  difficult  to  dispense  with  it. 


102 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


those  I love,  when  it  is  so  very  little  in  my  power  to  help  them. 
I am  sorry  to  find  you  are  every  way  unprovided  for;  and 
what  adds  to  my  uneasiness  is,  that  I have  received  a letter 
from  my  sister  Johnson,  by  which  1 learn  that  she  is  pretty 
much  in  the  same  circumstances.  As  to  myself,  I believe  I think 
I could  get  both  you  and  my  poor  brother-in-law  something  like 
that  which  you  desire,  hut  I am  determined  never  to  ask  for 
little  things,  nor  exhaust  any  little  interest  I may  have,  until 
I can  serve  you,  him,  and  myself  more  effectually.  As  yet,  no 
opportunity  has  offered ; hut  I believe  you  are  pretty  well  con- 
vinced that  I will  not  be  remiss  when  it  arrives. 

“The  king  has  lately  been  pleased  to  make  me  Professor  of 
Ancient  History  in  the  Royal  Academy  of  Painting  which  he 
has  just  established,  but  there  is  no  salary  annexed;  and  I took 
it  rather  as  a compliment  to  the  institution  than  any  benefit 
to  myself.  Honors  to  one  in  my  situation  are  something  like 
ruffles  to  one  that  wants  a shirt. 

“ You  tell  me  that  there  are  fourteen  or  fifteen  pounds  left 
me  in  the  hands  of  my  cousin  Lawder,  and  you  ask  me  what 
I would  have  done  with  them.  My  dear  brother,  I would  by 
no  means  give  any  directions  to  my  dear  worthy  relations  at 
Kilmore  how  to  dispose  of  money  which  is,  properly  speaking, 
more  theirs  than  mine.  All  that  I can  say  is,  that  I entirely, 
and  this  letter  will  serve  to  witness,  give  up  any  right  and  title 
to  it ; and  I am  sure  they  will  dispose  of  it  to  the  best  advan- 
tage. To  them  I entirely  leave  it ; whether  they  or  you  may 
think  the  whole  necessary  to  fit  you  out,  or  whether  our  poor 
sister  Johnson  may  not  want  the  half,  I leave  entirely  to  their 
and  your  discretion.  The  kindness  of  that  good  couple  to  our 
shattered  family  demands  our  sincerest  gratitude ; and,  though 
they  have  almost  forgotten  me,  yet,  if  good  things  at  last  ar- 
rive, I hope  one  day  to  return  and  increase  their  good-humor 
by  adding  to  my  own. 

“I  have  sent  my  cousin  Jenny  a miniature  picture  of  my- 
self, as  I believe  it  is  the  most  acceptable  present  I can  offer. 
I have  ordered  it  to  be  left  for  her  at  George  Faulkner’s,  folded 
in  a letter.  The  face,  you  well  know,  is  ugly  enough,  but  it  is 
finely  painted.  I will  shortly  also  send  my  friends  over  the 
Shannon  some  mezzotinto  prints  of  myself,  and  some  more  of 
my  friends  here,  such  as  Burke,  Johnson,  Reynolds,  and  Col- 
man.  I believe  I have  written  a hundred  letters  to  different 
friends  in  your  country,  and  never  received  an  answer  to  any 
of  them.  I do  not  know  how  to  account  for  this,  or  why  they 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH,  163 

are  unwilling  to  keep  up  for  me  those  regards  which  I must 
ever  retain  for  them. 

“If,  then,  you  have  a mind  to  oblige  me,  you  will  write 
often,  whether  I answer  you  or  not.  Let  me  particularly  have 
the  news  of  our  family  and  old  acquaintances.  For  instance, 
you  may  begin  by  telling  me  about  the  family  where  you  re- 
side, how  they  spend  their  time,  and  whether  they  ever  make 
mention  of  me.  Tell  me  about  my  mother,  my  brother  Hod- 
son  and  his  son,  my  brother  Harry’s  son  and  daughter,  my 
sister  Johnson,  the  family  of  Bally oughter,  what  is  become  of 
them,  where  they  live,  and  how  they  do.  You  talked  of  being 
my  only  brother:  I don’t  understand  you.  Where  is  Charles? 
A sheet  of  paper  occasionally  filled  with  the  news  of  this  kind 
would  make  me  very  happy,  and  would  keep  you  nearer  my 
mind.  As  it  is,  my  dear  brother,  believe  me  to  be 

“Yours,  most  affectionately, 

“Oliver  Goldsmith.” 

By  this  letter  we  find  the  Goldsmiths  the  same  shifting,  shift- 
less race  as  formerly;  a “ shattered  family,”  scrambling  on  each 
other’s  back  as  soon  as  any  rise  above  the  surface.  Maurice 
is  “every  way  unprovided  for;”  living  upon  cousin  Jane  and 
her  husband ; and,  perhaps,  amusing  himself  by  hunting  otter 
in  the  river  Inny.  Sister  Johnson  and  her  husband  are  as 
poorly  off  as  Maurice,  with,  perhaps,  no  one  at  hand  to  quar- 
ter themselves  upon ; as  to  the  rest,  * ‘ what  is  become  of  them ; 
where  do  they  live ; how  do  they  do ; what  is  become  of 
Charles?”  What  forlorn,  haphazard  life  is  implied  by  these 
questions!  Can  we  wonder  that,  with  all  the  love  for  his 
native  place,  which  is  shown  throughout  Goldsmith’s  writ- 
ings, he  had  not  the  heart  to  return  there?  Yet  his  affections 
are  still  there.  He  wishes  to  know  whether  the  Lawders 
(which  means  his  cousin  Jane,  his  early  Valentine)  ever  make 
mention  of  him;  he  sends  Jane  his  miniature;  he  believes  “it 
is  the  most  acceptable  present  he  can  offer;”  he  evidently, 
therefore,  does  not  believe  she  has  almost  forgotten  him, 
although  he  intimates  that  he  does:  in  his  memory  she  is 
still  Jane  Contarine,  as  he  last  saw  her,  when  he  accompanied 
her  harpsichord  with  his  flute.  Absence,  like  death,  sets  a 
seal  on  the  image  of  those  we  have  loved ; we  cannot  realize 
the  intervening  changes  which  time  may  have  effected. 

As  to  the  rest  of  Goldsmith’s  relatives,  he  abandons  his 
legacy  of  fifteen  pounds,  to  be  shared  among  them.  It  is  all  he 


164 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


has  to  give.  His  heedless  improvidence  is  eating  up  the  pay 
of  the  booksellers  in  advance.  With  all  his  literary  success, 
he  has  neither  money  nor  influence ; but  he  has  empty  fame, 
and  lie  is  ready  to  participate  with  them;  he  is  honorary  pro- 
fessor, without  pay;  his  portrait  is  to  be  engraved  in  mezzo- 
tint, in  company  with  those  of  his  friends,  Burke,  Reynolds, 
Johnson,  Colman,  and  others,  and  he  will  send  prints  of  them 
to  his  friends  over  the  Channel,  though  they  may  not  have  a 
house  to  hang  them  up  in.  What  a motley  letter!  How  indi- 
cative of  the  motley  character  of  the  writer!  By  the  by,  the 
publication  of  a splendid  mezzotinto  engraving  of  his  likeness 
by  Reynolds,  was  a great  matter  of  glorification  to  Gold- 
smith, especially  as  it  appeared  in  such  illustrious  company. 
As  he  was  one  day  walking  the  streets  in  a state  of  high  ela- 
tion, from  having  just  seen  it  figuring  in  the  print-shop  win- 
dows, he  met  a young  gentleman  with  a newly  married  wife 
hanging  on  his  arm,  whom  he  immediately  recognized  for 
Master  Bishop,  one  of  the  boys  he  had  petted  and  treated  with 
sweetmeats  when  a humble  usher  at  Milner’s  school.  The 
kindly  feelings  of  old  times  revived,  and  he  accosted  him  with 
cordial  familiarity,  though  the  youth  may  have  found  some 
difficulty  in  recognizing  in  the  personage,  arrayed,  perhaps,  in 
garments  of  Tyrian  dye,  the  dingy  pedagogue  of  the  Milners. 
“ Come,  my  boy,”  cried  Goldsmith,  as  if  still  speaking  to  a 
schoolboy,  “ Come,  Sam,  I am  delighted  to  see  you.  I must 
treat  you  to  something — what  shall  it  be?  Will  you  have  some 
apples?”  glancing  at  an  old  woman’s  stall;  then,  recollecting 
the  print-shop  window:  “ Sam,”  said  he,  “ have  you  seen  my 
picture  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds?  Have  you  seen  it,  Sam? 
Have  you  got  an  engraving?”  Bishop  was  caught;  he  equivo- 
cated ; he  had  not  yet  bought  it ; but  he  was  furnishing  his 
house,  and  had  fixed  upon  the  place  where  it  was  to  be  hung. 
“Ah,  Sam!”  rejoined  Goldsmith  reproachfully,  “if  your  pic- 
ture had  been  published,  I should  not  have  waited  an  hour 
without  having  it.” 

After  all,  it  was  honest  pride,  not  vanity,  in  Goldsmith,  that 
was  gratified  at  seeing  his  portrait  deemed  worthy  of  being 
perpetuated  by  the  classic  pencil  of  Reynolds,  and  “hungup 
in  history”  beside  that  of  his  revered  friend,  Johnson.  Even 
the  great  moralist  himself  was  not  insensible  to  a feeling  of 
this  kind.  Walking  one  day  with  Goldsmith,  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  among  the  tombs  of  monarchs,  warriors,  and  states 
men,  they  came  to  the  sculptured  mementos  of  literary  wor 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, . 


165 


thies  in  poets’  corner.  Casting  his  eye  round  upon  these  me- 
morials of  genius,  Johnson  muttered  in  a low  tone  to  his 
companion, 

Forsitan  et  nostrum  nomen  miscebitur  istis. 

Goldsmith  treasured  up  the  intimated  hope,  and  shortly  after* 
ward,  as  they  were  passing  by  Temple  bar,  where  the  heads  of 
Jacobite  rebels,  executed  for  treason,  were  mouldering  aloft  on 
spikes,  pointed  up  to  the  grizzly  mementos,  and  echoed  the  in- 
timation, 

Forsitan  et  nostrum  nomen  miscebitur  istis . 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

PUBLICATION  OF  THE  6 L DESERTED  VILLAGE” — NOTICES  AND 

ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  IT. 

Several  years  had  now  elapsed  since  the  publication  of 
, ‘ 1 The  Traveller,  ” and  much  wonder  was  expressed  that  the 
great  success  of  that  poem  had  not  excited  the  author  to 
further  poetic  attempts.  On  being  questioned  at  the  annual 
dinner  of  the  Royal  Academy  by  the  Earl  of  Lisburn,  why  he 
neglected  the  muses  to  compile  histories  and  write  novels, 
u My  Lord,”  replied  he,  “ by  courting  the  muses  I shall  starve, 
but  by  my  other  labors  I eat,  drink,  have  good  clothes,  and 
can  enjoy  the  luxuries  of  life.”  So,  also,  on  being  asked  by  a 
poor  writer  what  was  the  most  profitable  mode  of  exercising 
the  pen,  uMy  dear  fellow,”  replied  he,  good-humoredly,  upay 
no  regard  to  the  draggle  tailed  muses;  for  my  part  I have 
found  productions  in  prose  much  more  sought  after  and  better 
paid  for.” 

Still,  however,  as  we  have  heretofore  shown,  he  found  sweet 
moments  of  dalliance  to  steal  away  from  his  prosaic  toils,  and 
court  the  muse  among  the  green  lanes  and  hedge-rows  in  the 
rural  environs  of  London,  and  on  the  26th  of  May,  1770,  he 
was  enabled  to  bring  his  u Deserted  Village”  before  the  public. 

The  popularity  of  “The  Traveller”  had  prepared  the  way 
for  this  poem,  and  its  sale  was  instantaneous  and  immense. 
The  first  edition  was  immediately  exhausted ; in  a few  days  a 
second  was  issued ; in  a few  days  more  a third,  and  by  the 


106 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


16th  of  August  the  fifth  edition  was  hurried  through  the  press. 
As  is  the  case  with  popular  writers,  he  had  become  his  own 
rival,  and  critics  were  inclined  to  give  the  preference  to  his 
first  poem;  but  with  the  public  at  large  we  believe  the  uDe> 
serted  Village”  has  ever  been  the  greatest  favorite.  Previous 
to  its  publication  the  bookseller  gave  him  in  advance  a note 
for  the  price  agreed  upon,  one  hundred  guineas.  As  the  latter 
was  returning  home  he  met  a friend  to  whom  he  mentioned 
the  circumstance,  and  who,  apparently  judging  of  poetry  by 
quantity  rather  than  quality,  observed  that  it  was  a great  sum 
for  so  small  a poem.  “ In  truth,”  said  Goldsmith,  “I  think  so 
too ; it  is  much  more  than  the  honest  man  can  afford  or  the 
piece  is  worth.  I have  not  been  easy  since  I received  it.”  In 
fact,  he  actually  returned  the  note  to  the  bookseller,  and  left 
it  to  him  to  graduate  the  payment  according  to  the  success  of 
the  work.  The  bookseller,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  soon  re- 
paid him  in  full  with  many  acknowledgments  of  bis  disinter- 
estedness. This  anecdote  has  been  called  in  question,  we 
know  not  on  what  grounds ; we  see  nothing  in  it  incompatible 
with  the  character  of  Goldsmith,  who  was  very  impulsive, 
and  prone  to  acts  of  inconsiderate  generosity. 

As  we  do  not  pretend  in  this  summary  memoir  to  go  into  a 
criticism  or  analysis  of  any  of  Goldsmith’s  writings,  we  shall 
not  dwell  upon  the  peculiar  merits  of  this  poem ; we  cannot 
help  noticing,  however,  how  truly  it  is  a mirror  of  the  author’s 
heart,  and  of  all  the  fond  pictures  of  early  friends  and  early  life 
forever  present  there.  It  seems  to  us  as  if  the  very  last  ac- 
counts received  from  home,  of  his  ‘ 1 shattered  family,  ” and  the 
desolation  that  seemed  to  have  settled  upon  the  haunts  of  his 
chilhood,  had  cut  to  the  roots  one  feebly  cherished  hope,  and 
produced  the  following  exquisitely  tender  and  mournful  lines: 


“ In  all  my  wand’rings  round  this  world  of  care, 

In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  giv’n  my  share — 

I still  had  hopes  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 

Amid  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down; 

To  husband  out  life’s  taper  at  the  close, 

And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose; 

I still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 

Amid  the  swakis  to  show  my  book-learn’d  skill. 
Around  my  fire  an  ev’ning  group  to  draw, 

And  tell  of  all  I felt  and  all  I saw; 

And  as  a hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew; 
I still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 

Here  to  return— and  die  at  home  at  last.” 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


167 


How  touchingly  expressive  are  the  succeeding  lines,  wrung 
from  a heart  which  all  the  trials  and  temptations  and  buffet- 
ings  of  the  world  could  not  render  worldly;  which,  amid  a 
thousand  follies  and  errors  of  the  head,  still  retained  its  child- 
like innocence ; and  which,  doomed  to  struggle  on  to  the  last 
amid  the  din  and  turmoil  of  the  metropolis,  has  ever  been 
cheating  itself  with  a dream  of  rural  quiet  and  seclusion : 


“ Oh  bless’d  retirement!  friend  to  life’s  decline, 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine, 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease ; 

Who  quits  a world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  ’tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly! 

For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep; 
Nor  surly  porter  stands,  in  guilty  state, 

To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate; 

But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 

Angels  around  befriending  virtue’s  friend; 

Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way; 

And  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 

His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past.” 


NOTE. 

The  following  article,  which  appeared  in  a London  periodi- 
cal, shows  the  effect  of  Goldsmith’s  poem  in  renovating  the 
fortunes  of  Lissoy. 

4 4 About  three  miles  from  Ballymahon,  a very  central  town 
in  the  sister  kingdom,  is  the  mansion  and  village  of  Auburn, 
so  called  by  their  present  possessor,  Captain  Hogan.  Through 
the  taste  and  improvement  of  this  gentleman,  it  is  now  a beau- 
tiful spot,  although  fifteen  years  since  it  presented  a very  bare 
and  unpoetical  aspect.  This,  however,  was  owing  to  a cause 
which  serves  strongly  to  corroborate  the  assertion  that  Gold- 
smith had  this  scene  in  view  when  he  wrote  his  poem  of  4 The 
Deserted  Village.’  The  then  possessor,  General  Napier,  turned 
all  his  tenants  out  of  their  farms  that  he  might  inclose  them  in 
his  own  private  domain.  Littleton,  the  mansion  of  the  gen- 
eral, stands  not  far  off,  a complete  emblem  of  the  desolating 
spirit  lamented  by  the  poet,  dilapidated  and  converted  into  a 
barrack. 

44  The  chief  object  of  attraction  is  Lissoy,  once  the  parsonage 
house  of  Henry  Goldsmith,  that  brother  to  whom  the  poet 


168 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


dedicated  his  ‘Traveller,’  and  who  is  represented  as  the  village 
pastor, 

‘Passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a year.’ 

‘ ‘ When  I was  in  the  country,  the  lower  chambers  were  in' 
habited  by  pigs  and  sheep,  and  the  drawing-rooms  by  goats. 
Captain  Ilogan,  however,  has,  I believe,  got  it  since  into  his 
possession,  and  has,  of  course,  improved  its  condition. 

“Though  at  first  strongly  inclined  to  dispute  the  identity  of 
Auburn,  Lissoy  House  overcame  my  scruples.  As  I clambered 
over  the  rotten  gate,  and  crossed  the  grass-grown  lawn  or 
court,  the  tide  of  association  became  too  strong  for  casuistry ; 
here  the  poet  dwelt  and  wrote,  and  here  his  thoughts  fondly 
recurred  when  composing  his  ‘ Traveller  ’ in  a foreign  land. 
Yonder  was  the  decent  church,  that  literally  ‘ topped  the  neigh- 
boring hill.  ’ Before  me  lay  the  little  hill  of  Knockrue,  on  which 
he  declares,  in  one  of  his  letters,  he  had  rather  sit  with  a book 
in  hand  than  mingle  in  the  pj'oudest  assemblies.  And,  above 
all,  startlingly  true,  beneath  my  feet  was 

‘Yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 

And  still  where  many  a garden-flower  grows  wild.’ 

“A  painting  from  the  life  could  not  be  more  exact.  ‘The 
stubborn  currant-bush  ’ lifts  its  head  above  the  rank  grass,  and 
the  proud  hollyhock  flaunts  where  its  sisters  of  the  flower-knot 
are  no  more. 

‘ ‘ In  the  middle  of  the  village  stands  the  old  4 hawthorn-tree,  ’ 
built  up  with  masonry  to  distinguish  and  preserve  it ; it  is  old 
and  stunted,  and  suffers  much  from  the  depredations  of  post- 
chaise  travellers,  who  generally  stop  to  procure  a twig.  Op- 
posite to  it  is  the  village  alehouse,  over  the  door  of  whicn 
swings  ‘The  Three  Jolly  Pigeons.’  Within  every  tiling  is  ar- 
ranged according  to  the  letter : 

‘ The  whitewash'd  wall,  the  nicely-sanded  floor. 

The  varnish'd  clock  that  click’d  behind  the  door: 

The  chest,  contrived  a double  debt  to  pay, 

A bed  by  night,  a chest  of  drawers  by  day ; 

The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 

The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose.’ 

“Captain  Hogan,  I have  heard,  found  great  difficulty  in  ob- 
taining ‘ the  twelve  good  rules,’  but  at  length  purchased  them 
at  some  London  bookstall  to  adorn  the  whitewashed  parlor  of 
‘The  Three  Jolly  Pigeons.’  However  laudable  this  may  be, 
nothing  shook  my  faith  in  the  reality  of  Auburn  so  much  as 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH . 


169 


this  exactness,  which  had  the  disagreeable  air  of  being  got  up 
for  the  occasion.  The  last  object  of  pilgrimage  is  the  quondam 
habitation  of  the  schoolmaster, 

‘ There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill’d  to  rule.’ 

It  is  surrounded  with  fragrant  proofs  of  identity  in 

‘ The  blossom’d  furze,  unprofitably  gay.’ 

‘ ‘ There  is  to  be  seen  the  chair  of  the  poet,  which  fell  into  the 
hands  of  its  present  possessors  at  the  wreck  of  the  parsonage- 
house  ; they  have  frequently  refused  large  offers  of  purchase ; 
but  more,  I dare  say,  for  the  sake  of  drawing  contributions 
from  the  curious  than  from  any  reverence  for  the  bard.  The 
chair  is  of  oak,  with  back  and  seat  of  cane,  which  precluded 
all  hopes  of  a secret  drawer,  like  that  lately  discovered  in 
Gay’s.  There  is  no  fear  of  its  being  worn  out  by  the  devout 
earnestness  of  sitters — as  the  cocks  and  hens  have  usurped  un- 
disputed possession  of  it,  and  protest  most  clamorous]  y against 
all  attempts  to  get  it  cleansed  or  to  seat  one’s  self. 

4 ‘The  controversy  concerning  the  identity  of  this  Auburn 
was  formerly  a standing  theme  of  discussion  among  the 
learned  of  the  neighborhood;  but,  since  the  pros  and  cons 
have  been  all  ascertained,  the  argument  has  died  away.  Its 
abettors  plead  the  singular  agreement  between  the  local  his- 
tory of  the  place  and  the  Auburn  of  the  poem,  and  the  exact- 
ness with  which  the  scenery  of  the  one  answers  to  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  other.  To  this  is  opposed  the  mention  of  the  night- 
ingale, 

‘And  fill’d  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made;’ 

there  being  no  such  bird  in  the  island.  The  objection  is 
slighted,  on  the  other  hand,  by  considering  the  passage  as  a 
mere  poetical  license.  ‘ Besides,  ’ say  they,  ‘the  robin  is  the  Irish 
nightingale.  ’ And  if  it  be  hinted  how  unlikely  it  was  that 
Goldsmith  should  have  laid  the  scene  in  a place  from  which 
he  was  and  had  been  so  long  absent,  the  rejoinder  is  always, 
'Pray,  sir,  was  Milton  in  hell  when  he  built  Pandemonium?  ’ 

‘ ‘ The  line  is  naturally  drawn  between ; there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  the  poet  intended  England  by 

4 The  land  to  hast’ning  ills  a prey, 

Where  wealth  accumulates  and  men  decay.’ 

But  it  is  very  natural  to  suppose  that,  at  the  same  time,  his 
imagination  had  in  view  the  scenes  of  his  youth,  which  give 
such  strong  features  of  resemblance  to  the  picture, ’? 


170 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Best,  an  Irish  clergyman,  told  Davis,  the  traveller  in  Amer- 
ica, that  the  hawthorn-bush  mentioned  in  the  poem  was  still 
remarkably  large.  “ I was  riding  once,”  said  he,  “ with  Brady, 
titular  Bishop  of  Ardagh,  when  he  observed  to  me,  ‘ Ma  foy, 
Best,  this  huge  overgrown  bush  is  mightily  in  the  way.  I will 
order  it  to  be  cut  down.’— ‘What,  sir!  ’ replied  I,  ‘ cut  down  the 
bush  that  supplies  so  beautiful  an  image  in  “ The  Deserted  Vil- 
lage”? ’ — c Ma  foy ! ’ exclaimed  the  bishop,  ‘ is  that  the  hawthorn- 
bush?  Then  let  it  be  sacred  from  the  edge  of  the  axe,  and  evil 
be  to  him  that  should  cut  off  a branch.’  ” — The  hawthorn-bush, 
however,  has  long  since  been  cut  up,  root  and  branch,  in  fur- 
nishing relics  to  literary  pilgrims. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  POET  AMONG  THE  LADIES— DESCRIPTION  OF  HIS  PERSON  AND 
MANNERS— EXPEDITION  TO  PARIS  WITH  THE  HORNECK  FAMILY 
— THE  TRAVELLER  OF  TWENTY  AND  THE  TRAVELLER  OF  FORTY 
—HICKEY,  THE  SPECIAL  ATTORNEY— AN  UNLUCKY  EXPLOIT. 

The  “Deserted  Village”  had  shed  an  additional  poetic  grace 
round  the  homely  person  of  the  author ; he  was  becoming  more 
and  more  acceptable  in  ladies’  eyes,  and  finding  himself  more 
and  more  at  ease  in  their  society ; at  least  in  the  society  of 
those  whom  he  met  in  the  Reynolds  circle,  among  whom  he 
particularly  affected  the  beautiful  family  of  the  Hornecks. 

But  let  us  see  what  were  really  the  looks  and  manners  of 
Goldsmith  about  this  time,  and  what  right  he  had  to  aspire  to 
ladies’  smiles ; and  in  so  doing  let  us  not  take  the  sketches  of 
Boswell  and  his  compeers,  who  had  a propensity  to  represent 
him  in  caricature ; but  let  us  take  the  apparently  truthful  and 
discriminating  picture  of  him  as  he  appeared  to  Judge  Day, 
when  the  latter  was  a student  in  the  Temple. 

“In  person,”  says  the  judge,  “ he  was  short;  about  five  feet 
five  or  six  inches ; strong,  but  not  heavy  in  make ; rather  fair 
in  complexion,  with  brown  hair ; such,  at  least,  as  could  be  dis- 
tinguished from  his  wig.  His  features  were  plain,  but  not  re- 
pulsive—certainly  not  so  when  lighted  up  by  conversation. 
His  manners  were  simple,  natural,  and  perhaps  on  the  whole, 
we  may  say,  not  polished ; at  least  without  the  refinement  and 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


171 


good-breeding  which  the  exquisite  polish  of  his  compositions 
would  lead  us  to  expect.  He  was  always  cheerful  and  ani- 
mated, often,  indeed,  boisterous  in  his  mirth;  entered  with 
spirit  into  convivial  society ; contributed  largely  to  its  enjoy- 
ments by  solidity  of  information,  and  the  naivete  and  origi- 
nality of  his  character;  talked  often  without  premeditation, 
and  laughed  loudly  without  restraint.” 

This,  it  will  be  recollected,  represents  him  as  he  appeared  to 
a young  Templar,  who  probably  saw  him  only  in  Temple  coffee- 
houses, at  students’  quarters,  or  at  the  jovial  supper  parties 
given  at  the  poet’s  own  chambers;  here,  of  course,  his  mind 
was  in  its  rough  dress ; his  laugh  may  have  been  loud  and  his 
mirth  boisterous ; but  we  trust  all  these  matters  became  soft- 
ened and  modified  when  he  found  himself  in  polite  drawing- 
rooms and  in  female  society. 

But  what  say  the  ladies  themselves  of  him  ? And  here,  fortu- 
nately, we  have  another  sketch  of  him,  as  he  appeared  at  the 
time  to  one  of  the  Horneck  circle ; in  fact,  we  believe,  to  the 
Jessamy  Bride  herself.  After  admitting,  apparently  with 
some  reluctance,  that  “ he  was  a very  plain  man,”  she  goes  on 
to  say,  4 4 but  had  he  been  much  more  so,  it  was  impossible  not 
to  love  and  respect  his  goodness  of  heart,  which  broke  out  on 
every  occasion.  His  benevolence  was  unquestionable,  and  his 
countenance  bore  every  trace  of  it : no  one  that  knew  him.  inti- 
mately could  avoid  admiring  and  loving  his  good  qualities.” 
When  to  all  this  we  add  the  idea  of  intellectual  delicacy  and 
refinement  associated  with  him  by  his  poetry  and  the  newly 
plucked  bays  that  were  flourishing  round  his  brow,  we  can- 
not be  surprised  that  fine  and  fashionable  ladies  should  be 
proud  of  his  attentions,  and  that  even  a young  beauty  should 
not  be  altogether  displeased  with  the  thoughts  of  having  a 
man  of  his  genius  in  her  chains. 

We  are  led  to  indulge  some  notions  of  the  kind  from  finding 
him  in  the  month  of  July,  but  a few  weeks  after  the  publica- 
tion of  the  “ Deserted  Village,”  setting  off  on  a six  weeks’  ex- 
cursion to  Paris,  in  company  with  Mrs.  Horneck  and  her  two 
beautiful  daughters.  A day  or  two  before  his  departure,  we 
find  another  new  gala  suit  charged  to  him  on  the  books  of  Mr. 
William  Filby.  Were  the  bright  eyes  of  the  Jessamy  Bride 
responsible  for  this  additional  extravagance  of  wardrobe  ? 
Goldsmith  had  recently  been  editing  the  works  of  Parnell; 
1 vl  he  taken  courage  from  the  example  of  Edwin  in  the  fairy 

f ->  1 -"V  . 

IvAi-V  • 


172 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


‘ Yet  spite  of  all  that  nature  did 
To  make  his  uncouth  form  forbid, 

This  creature  dared  to  love. 

He  felt  the  force  of  Edith’s  eyes, 

Nor  wanted  hope  to  gain  the  prize 
Could  ladies  look  within ” 

All  this  we  throw  out  as  mere  hints  and  surmises,  leaving  it 
to  our  readers  to  draw  their  own  conclusions.  It  will  he 
found,  however,  that  the  poet  was  subjected  to  shrewd  banter- 
ing among  his  contemporaries  about  the  beautiful  Mary  ilor- 
neck,  and  that  he  was  extremely  sensitive  on  the  subject. 

It  was  in  the  month  of  June  that  he  set  out  for  Paris  with 
his  fair  companions,  and  the  following  letter  was  written  by 
him  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  soon  after  the  party  landed  at 
Calais : 

“My  dear  Friend:  We  had  a very  quick  passage  from 
Dover  to  Calais,  which  we  performed  in  three  hours  and 
twenty  minutes,  all  of  us  extremely  sea-sick,  which  must 
necessarily  have  happened,  as  my  machine  to  prevent  sea- 
sickness was  not  completed.  We  were  glad  to  leave  Dover, 
because  we  hated  to  be  imposed  upon ; so  were  in  high  spirits 
at  coming  to  Calais,  where  we  were  told  that  a little  money 
would  go  a great  way. 

“Upon  landing,  with  two  little  trunks,  which  was  all  we 
carried  with  us,  we  were  surprised  to  see  fourteen  or  fifteen 
fellows  all  running  down  to  the  ship  to  lay  their  hands  upon 
them;  four  got  under  each  trunk,  the  rest  surrounded  and 
held  the  hasps;  and  in  this  manner  our  little  baggage  was 
conducted,  with  a kind  of  funeral  solemnity,  till  it  was  safely 
lodged  at  the  custom-house.  We  were  well  enough  pleased 
with  the  people’s  civility  till  they  came  to  be  paid ; every  crea- 
ture that  had  the  happiness  of  but  touching  our  trunks  with 
their  finger  expected  sixpence;  and  they  had  so  pretty  and 
civil  a manner  of  demanding  it,  that  there  was  no  refusing 
them. 

‘ ‘ When  we  had  done  with  the  porters,  we  had  next  to  speak 
with  the  custom-house  officers,  who  had  their  pretty  civil 
way  too.  We  were  directed  to  the  Hotel  d’Angleterre,  where 
a valet- de-place  came  to  offer  his  service,  and  spoke  to  me  ten 
minutes  before  I once  found  out  that  he  was  speaking  English. 
We  had  no  occasion  for  his  services,  so  we  gave  him  a little 
money  because  he  spoke  English,  and  because  he  wanted  it.  I 
cannot  help  mentioning  another  circumstance : I bought  a new 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


173 


•dbbon  for  my  wig  at  Canterbury,  and  the  barber  at  Calais 
broke  it  in  order  to  gain  sixpence  by  buying  me  a new  one.” 

An  incident  which  occurred  in  the  course  of  this  tour  has 
been  tortured  by  that  literary  magpie,  Boswell,  into  a proof 
of  Goldsmith’s  absurd  jealousy  of  any  admiration  shown  to 
others  in  his  presence.  While  stopping  at  a hotel  in  Lisle, 
they  were  drawn  to  the  windows  by  a military  parade  in  front. 
The  extreme  beauty  of  the  Miss  Hornecks  immediately  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  the  officers,  who  broke  forth  with  en- 
thusiastic speeches  and  compliments  intended  for  their  ears. 
Goldsmith  was  amused  for  a while,  but  at  length  affected  im- 
patience at  this  exclusive  admiration  of  his  beautiful  compan- 
ions, and  exclaimed,  with  mock  severity  of  aspect,  “Elsewhere 
I also  would  have  my  admirers.” 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  the  obtuseness  of  intellect  necessary 
to  misconstrue  so  obvious  a piece  of  mock  petulance  and  dry 
humor  into  an  instance  of  mortified  vanity  and  jealous  self- 
conceit. 

Goldsmith  jealous  of  the  admiration  of  a group  of  gay  offi- 
cers for  the  charms  of  two  beautiful  young  women ! This  even 
out-Boswells  Boswell;  yet  this  is  but  one  of  several  similar 
absurdities,  evidently  misconceptions  of  Goldsmith’s  peculiar 
vein  of  humor,  by  which  the  charge  of  envious  jealousy  has 
been  attempted  to  be  fixed  upon  him.  In  the  present  instance 
it  was  contradicted  by  one  of  the  ladies  herself,  who  was  an- 
noyed that  it  had  been  advanced  against  him.  ‘ 1 1 am  sure,  ” 
said  she,  “from  the  peculiar  manner  of  his  humor,  and  as- 
sumed frown  of  countenance,  what  was  often  uttered  in  jest 
was  mistaken,  by  those  who  did  not  know  him,  for  earnest.” 
No  one  was  more  prone  to  err  on  this  point  than  Boswell.  He 
had  a tolerable  perception  of  wit,  but  none  of  humor. 

The  following  letter  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  was  subse- 
quently written : 


“ To  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds . 

“Paris,  July  29  (1770). 

“ My  dear  Friend:  I began  a long  letter  to  you  from  Lisle, 
giving  a description  of  all  that  we  had  done  and  seen,  but, 
finding  it  very  dull,  and  knowing  that  you  would  show  it 
again,  I threw  it  aside  and  it  was  lost.  You  see  by  the  top  of 
this  letter  that  we  are  at  Paris,  and  (as  I have  often  heard  you 


174 


OLIVER  0 OLD  SMI  TII. 


say)  we  hare  brought  our  own  amusement  with  us,  for  the 
ladies  do  not  seem  to  be  very  fond  of  what  we  have  yet 
seen. 

“ With  regard  to  myself,  I find  that  travelling  at  twenty  and 
forty  are  very  different  things.  I set  out  with  all  my  con- 
firmed habits  about  me,  andean  find  nothing  on  the  Continent 
so  good  as  when  I formerly  left  it.  One  of  our  chief  amuse- 
ments here  is  scolding  at  everything  we  meet  with,  and  prais- 
ing everything  and  every  person  we  left  at  home.  You  may 
judge,  therefore,  whether  your  name  is  not  frequently  ban- 
died at  table  among  us.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I never  thought 
I could  regret  your  absence  so  much  as  our  various  mortifica- 
tions on  the  road  have  taught  me  to  do.  I could  tell  you  of 
disasters  and  adventures  without  number  ; of  our  lying  in 
barns,  and  of  my  being  half  poisoned  with  a dish  of  green  peas  ; 
of  our  quarrelling  with  postilions,  and  being  cheated  by  our 
landladies  ; but  I reserve  all  this  for  a happy  hour  which  I 
expect  to  share  with  you  upon  my  return. 

“ I have  little  to  tell  you  more  but  that  we  are  at  present  all 
well,  and  expect  returning  when  we  have  stayed  out  one 
month,  which  I do  not  care  if  it  were  over  this  very  day.  I 
long  to  hear  from  you  all,  how  you  yourself  do,  how  Johnson 
Burke,  Dyer,  Chamier,  Colman,  and  ever}T  one  of  the  club  do. 
I wish  I could  send  you  some  amusement  in  this  letter,  but  I 
protest  I am  so  stupefied  by  the  air  of  this  country  (for  I am 
sure  it  cannot  be  natural)  that  I have  not  a word  to  say.  I 
have  been  thinking  of  the  plot  of  a comedy,  which  shall  be 
entitled  A Journey  *o  Paris , in  which  a family  shall  be  intro- 
duced with  a full  intention  of  going  to  France  to  save  money. 
You  know  there  is  not  a place  in  the  world  more  promising 
for  that  purpose.  As  for  the  meat  of  this  country,  I can 
scarce  eat  it  ; and,  though  we  pay  two  good  shillings  a head 
for  our  dinner,  I found  it  all  so  tough  that  I have  spent  less 
time  with  my  knife  than  my  picktooth.  I said  this  as  a good 
thing  at  the  table,  but  it  was  not  understood.  I believe  it  to 
be  a good  thing. 

‘‘As  for  our  intended  journey  to  Devonshire,  I find  it  out  of 
my  power  to  perform  it ; for,  as  soon  as  I arrive  at  Dover, 
I intend  to  let  the  ladies  go  on,  and  I will  take  a country 
lodging  somewhere  near  that  place  in  order  to  do  some  busi- 
ness. I have  so  outrun  the  constable  that  I must  mortify  a 
little  to  bring  it  up  again.  For  God’s  sake,  the  night  you  re- 
ceive this,  take  your  peti  in  your  hand  and  tell  me  something 
about  yourself  and  myself,  if  you  know  anything  that  has 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


175 


happened.  About  Miss  Reynolds,  about  Mr.  Bickerstaff,  my 
nephew,  or  anybody  that  you  regard.  I beg  you  will  send  to 
Griffin  the  bookseller  to  know  if  there  be  any  letters  left  for 
me,  and  be  so  good  as  to  send  them  to  me  at  Paris.  They  may 
perhaps  be  left  for  me  at  the  Porter’s  Lodge,  opposite  the 
pump  in  Temple  Lane.  The  same  messenger  will  do.  I ex- 
pect one  from  Lord  Clare,  from  Ireland.  As  for  the  others,  I 
am  not  much  uneasy  about. 

u Is  there  anything  I can  do  for  you  at  Paris?  I wish  you 
would  tell  me.  The  whole  of  my  own  purchases  here  is  one 
silk  coat,  which  I have  put  on,  and  which  makes  me  look  like 
a fool.  But  no  more  of  that.  I find  that  Colman  has  gained 
his  lawsuit.  I am  glad  of  it.  I suppose  you  often  meet.  I 
will  soon  be  among  you,  better  pleased  with  my  situation  at 
home  than  I ever  was  before.  And  yet  I must  say,  that  if 
anything  could  make  France  pleasant,  the  very  good  women 
with  whom  I am  at  present  would  certainly  do  it.  I could  say 
more  about  that,  but  I intend  showing  them  the  letter  before  I 
send  it  away.  What  signifies  teasing  you  longer  with  moral 
observations,  when  the  business  of  my  writing  is  over?  I have 
one  thing  only  more  to  say,  and  of  that  I think  every  hour  in 
the  day,  namely  that  I am  your  most  sincere  and  most  af- 
fectionate friend, 

“ Oliver  Goldsmith. 

“ Direct  to  me  at  the  Hotel  de  Danemarc,  ) 

Rue  Jacob,  Fauxbourg  St.  Germains.”  ) 


A word  of  comment  on  this  letter : 

Travelling  is,  indeed,  a very  different  thing  with  Goldsmith 
the  poor  student  at  twenty,  and  Goldsmith  the  poet  and  pro- 
fessor at  forty.  At  twenty,  though  obliged  to  trudge  on  foot 
from  town  to  town,  and  country  to  country,  paying  for  a supper 
and  a bed  by  a tune  on  the  flute,  everything  pleased,  every- 
thing was  good ; a truckle  bed  in  a garret  was  a couch  of  down, 
and  the  homely  fare  of  the  peasant  a feast  fit  for  an  epicure. 
Now,  at  forty,  when  he  posts  through  the  country  in  a carriage, 
with  fair  ladies  by  his  side,  everything  goes  wrong : he  has  to 
quarrel  with  postilions,  he  is  cheated  by  landladies,  the  hotels 
are  barns,  the  meat  is  too  tough  to  be  eaten,  and  he  is  half 
poisoned  by  green  peas ! A line  in  his  letter  explains  the  secrete 
4 4 the  ladies  do  not  seem  to  be  very  fond  of  what  we  have  yet 
seen.”  4 4 One  of  our  chief  amusements  is  scolding  at  every- 
thing we  meet  with,  and  praising  everything  and  every  person 


176 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


wo  have  loft  at  home!”  the  true  English  travelling  amusement. 
Poor  Goldsmith!  he  has  “all  his  confirmed  habits  about  him;’1 
that  is  to  say,  he  has  recently  risen  into  high  life,  and  acquired 
high-bred  notions;  he  must  be  fastidious  like  his  fellow-travel- 
lers; he  dare  not  he  pleased  with  what  pleased  the  vulgar 
tastes  of  his  youth.  He  is  unconsciously  illustrating  the  trait 
so  humorously  satirized  by  him  in  Ned  Tibbs,  the  shabby 
beau,  who  can  find  “no  such  dressing  as  he  had  at  Lord 
Crump’s  or  Lady  Crimp’s;”  whose  very  senses  have  grown 
genteel,  and  who  no  longer  “smacks  at  wretched  wine  or 
praises  detestable  custard.”  A lurking  thorn,  too,  is  worrying 
him  throughout  this  tour;  he  has  “outrun  the  constable;” 
that  is  to  say,  his  expenses  have  outrun  his  means,  and  ho 
will  have  to  make  up  for  this  butterfly  flight  by  toiling  like  a 
grub  on  his  return. 

Another  circumstance  contributes  to  mar  the  pleasure  he 
had  promised  himself  in  this  excursion.  At  Paris  the  party  is 
unexpectedly  joined  by  a Mr.  Hickey,  a bustling  attorney, 
who  is  well  acquainted  with  that  metropolis  and  its  environs, 
and  insists  on  playing  the  cicerone  on  all  occasions.  He  and 
Goldsmith  do  not  relish  each  other,  and  they  have  several 
petty  altercations.  The  lawyer  is  too  much  a man  of  business 
and  method  for  the  careless  poet,  and  is  disposed  to  manage 
everything.  He  has  perceived  Goldsmith’s  whimsical  pecu- 
liarities without  properly  appreciating  his  merits,  and  is  prone 
to  indulge  in  broad  bantering  and  raillery  at  his  expense,  par- 
ticularly irksome  if  indulged  in  presence  of  the  ladies.  He 
makes  himself  merry  on  his  return  to  England,  by  giving  the 
following  anecdote  as  illustrative  of  Goldsmith’s  vanity: 

“Being  with  a party  at  Versailles,  viewing  the  waterworks, 
a question  arose  among  the  gentlemen  present,  whether  the 
distance  from  whence  they  stood  to  one  of  the  little  islands 
was  within  the  compass  of  a leap.  Goldsmith  maintained  the 
affirmative;  but,  being  bantered  on  the  subject,  and  remem- 
bering his  former  prowess  as  a youth,  attempted  the  leap,  but, 
falling  short,  descended  into  the  water,  to  the  great  amuse- 
ment of  the  company.” 

Was  the  Jessamy  Bride  a witness  of  this  unlucky  exploit? 

This  same  Hickey  is  the  one  of  whom  Goldsmith,  some  time 
subsequently,  gave  a good-humored  sketch,  in  his  poem  of 
“The  Retaliation.” 

“ Here  Hickey  reclines,  a most  blunt,  pleasant  creature. 

And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good  nature ; 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


177 


He  cherish’d  his  friend,  and  he  relish’d  a bumper, 

Yet  one  fault  he  had,  and  that  one  was  a thumper. 

Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a miser; 

I answer  No,  no,  for  he  always  was  wiser; 

Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat, 

His  very  worst  foe  can’t  accuse  him  of  that; 

Perhaps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go, 

And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest?  Ah,  no! 

Then  wrhat  was  his  failing?  Come,  tell  it,  and  burn  ye— 

He  was,  could  he  help  it?  a special  attorney.” 

One  of  the  few  remarks  extant  made  by  Goldsmith  during 
his  tour  is  the  following,  of  whimsical  import,  in  his  “ Ani- 
mated Nature.” 

“In  going  through  the  towns  of  France,  some  time  since,  I 
could  not  help  observing  how  much  plainer  their  parrots  spoke 
than  ours,  and  how  very  distinctly  I understood  their  parrots 
speak  French,  when  I could  not  understand  our  own,  though 
they  spoke  my  native  language.  I at  first  ascribed  it  to  the 
different  qualities  of  the  two  languages,  and  was  for  entering 
into  an  elaborate  discussion  on  the  vowels  and  consonants ; but 
a friend  that  was  with  me  solved  the  difficulty  at  once,  by  as- 
suring me  that  the  French  women  scarce  did  anything  else  the 
whole  day  than  sit  and  instruct  their  feathered  pupils ; and 
that  the  birds  were  thus  distinct  in  their  lessons  in  consequence 
of  continual  schooling.” 

His  tour  does  not  seem  to  have  left  in  his  memory  the 
most  fragrant  recollections ; for,  being  asked,  after  his  return, 
whether  travelling  on  the  Continent  repaid  ‘ 4 an  Englishman 
for  the  privations  and  annoyances  attendant  on  it,”  he  replied, 
6 ‘ I recommend  it  by  all  means  to  the  sick  if  they  are  without 
the  sense  of  smelling , and  to  the  poor  if  they  are  without  the 
sense  of  feeling ; and  to  both  if  they  can  discharge  from  their 
minds  all  idea  of  what  in  England  we  term  comfort.” 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  universal  improvement  in  the 
art  of  living  on  the  Continent  has  at  the  present  day  taken 
away  the  force  of  Goldsmith’s  reply,  though  even  at  the  time 
it  was  more  humorous  than  correct. 


178 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

DEATH  OF  GOLDSMITH’S  MOTHER— BIOGRAPHY  OF  PARNELL— 
AGREEMENT  WITH  DAVIES  FOR  THE  HISTORY  OF  ROME— LIFE 
OF  BOLING  BROKE — THE  HAUNCM  OF  VENISON. 

On  liis  return  to  England,  Goldsmith  received  the  melan- 
choly tidings  of  the  death  of  his  mother.  Notwithstanding 
the  fame  as  an  author  to  which  he  had  attained,  she  seems  to 
have  been  disappointed  in  her  early  expectations  from  him. 
Like  others  of  his  family,  she  had  been  more  vexed  by  his 
early  follies  than  pleased  by  his  proofs  of  genius ; and  in  sub- 
sequent years,  when  he  had  risen  to  fame  and  to  intercourse 
with  the  great,  had  been  annoyed  at  the  ignorance  of  the 
world  and  want  of  management,  which  prevented  him  from 
pushing  his  fortune.  He  had  always,  however,  been  an  affec- 
tionate son,  and  in  the  latter  years  of  her  life,  when  she  had 
become  blind,  contributed  from  his  precarious  resources  to  pre- 
vent her  from  feeling  want. 

He  now  resumed  the  labors  of  the  pen,  which  his  recent  ex- 
cursion to  Paris  rendered  doubly  necessary.  We  should  have 
mentioned  a “Life  of  Parnell,”  published  by  him  shortly  after 
the  “ Deserted  Village.”  It  was,  as  usual,  a piece  of  job  work, 
hastily  got  up  for  pocket-money.  Johnson  spoke  slightingly 
of  it,  and  the  author,  himself,  thought  proper  to  apologize  for 
its  meagreness;  yet,  in  so  doing,  used  a simile,  which  for 
beauty  of  imagery  and  felicity  of  language,  is  enough  of  itself 
to  stamp  a value  upon  the  essay. 

“Such,”  says  he,  “is  the  very  unpoetical  detail  of  the  life  of 
a poet.  Some  dates  and  some  few  facts,  scarcely  more  in- 
teresting than  those  that  make  the  ornaments  of  a country 
tombstone,  are  all  that  remain  of  one  whose  labors  now  begin 
to  excite  universal  curiosity.  A poet,  while  living,  is  seldom 
an  object  sufficiently  great  to  attract  much  attention ; his  real 
merits  are  known  but  to  a few,  and  these  are  generally  sparing 
in  their  praises.  When  his  fame  is  increased  by  time,  it  is 
then  too  late  to  investigate  the  peculiarities  of  his  disposition: 
the  dews  of  morning  are  past , and  we  vainly  try  to  continue  the 
chase  by  the  meridian  splendor.  ” 

He  now  entered  into  an  agreement  with  Davies  to  prepare 
an  abridgment,  in  one  volume  duodecimo,  of  his  History  of 
Rome ; but  first  to  write  a work  for  which  there  Tvas  a mor© 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


m 


immediate  demand.  Davies  was  about  to  republish  Lord 
Bolingbroke’s  “Dissertation  on  Parties,”  which  he  conceived 
would  be  exceedingly  applicable  to  the  affairs  of  the  day,  and 
make  a probable  hit  during  the  existing  state  of  violent  poli- 
tical excitement ; to  give  it  still  greater  effect  and  currency  he 
engaged  Goldsmith  to  introduce  it  with  a prefatory  life  of  Lord 
Bolingbroke. 

About  this  time  Goldsmith’s  friend  and  countryman  Lord 
Clare,  was  in  great  affliction,  caused  by  the  death  of  his  only 
son,  Colonel  Nugent,  and  stood  in  need  of  the  sympathies  of  a 
kind-hearted  friend.  At  his  request,  therefore,  Goldsmith 
paid  him  a visit  at  his  noble  seat  of  Gosfield,  taking  his  tasks 
with  him.  Davies  was  in  a worry  lest  Gosfield  Park  should 
prove  a Capua  to  the  poet,  and  the  time  be  lost.  4 ‘ Dr.  Gold- 
smith,” writes  he  to  a friend,  “ has  gone  with  Lord  Clare  into 
the  country,  and  I am  plagued  to  get  the  proofs  from  him  of 
the  Life  of  Lord  Bolingbroke.”  The  proofs,  however,  were 
furnished  in  time  for  the  publication  of  the  work  in  December. 
The  Biography,  though  written  during  a time  of  political 
turmoil,  and  introducing  a work  intended  to  be  thrown  into 
the  arena  of  politics,  maintained  that  freedom  from  party  pre- 
judice observable  in  all  the  writings  of  Goldsmith.  It  was  a 
selection  of  facts  drawn  from  many  unreadable  sources,  and 
arranged  into  a clear,  flowing  narrative,  illustrative  of  the 
career  and  character  of  one  who,  as  he  intimates,  “ seemed 
formed  by  nature  to  take  delight  in  struggling  with  opposi- 
tion ; whose  most  agreeable  hours  were  passed  in  storms  of  his 
own  creating;  whose  life  was  spent  in  a continual  conflict  of 
politics,  and  as  if  that  was  too  short  for  the  combat,  has  left 
his  memory  as  a subject  of  lasting  contention.”  The  sum 
received  by  the  author  for  this  memoir,  is  supposed,  from 
circumstances,  to  have  been  forty  pounds. 

Goldsmith  did  not  find  the  residence  among  the  great  unat- 
tended with  mortifications.  He  had  now  become  accustomed 
to  be  regarded  in  London  as  a literary  lion,  and  was  annoyed, 
at  what  he  considered  a slight,  on  the  part  of  Lord  Camden. 
He  complained  of  it  on  his  return  to  town  at  a party  of  his 
friends.  “I  met  him,”  said  he,  “at  Lord  Clare’s  house  in  the 
country ; and  he  took  no  more  notice  of  me  than  if  I had  been 
an  ordinary  man.”  “The  company,”  says  Boswell,  “ laughed 
heartily  at  this  piece  of  ‘diverting  simplicity.’”  And  fore- 
most among  the  laughers  was  doubtless  the  rattle-pated  Bos- 
well. Johnson,  however,  stepped  forward,  as  usual,  to  defend 


ISO 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


tlie  poet,  whom  he  would  allow  no  one  to  assail  but  himself; 
perhaps  in  the  present  instance  he  thought  the  dignity  of 
literature  itself  involved  in  the  question.  “ Nay,  gentlemen,” 
roared  he,  “ Dr.  Goldsmith  is  in  the  right.  A nobleman  ought 
to  have  made  up  to  such  a man  as  Goldsmith,  and  I think  it  is 
much  against  Lord  Camden  that  he  neglected  him.” 

After  Goldsmith’s  return  to  town  he  received  from  Lord 
Clare  a present  of  game,  which  he  has  celebrated  and  perpetu- 
ated in  his  amusing  verses  entitled  the  “ Haunch  of  Venison.” 
Some  of  the  lines  pleasantly  set  forth  the  embarrassment 
caused  by  the  appearance  of  such  an  aristocratic  delicacy  in 
the  humble  kitchen  of  a poet,  accustomed  to  look  up  to  mutton 
as  a treat : 


“ Thanks,  my  lord,  for  your  venison;  for  finer  or  fatter 
Never  rang'd  in  a forest,  or  smok’d  in  a platter: 

The  haunch  was  a picture  for  painters  to  study, 

The  fat  was  so  white,  and  the  lean  was  so  ruddy; 

Though  my  stomach  was  sharp,  I could  scarce  help  regretting, 

To  spoil  such  a delicate  picture  by  eating: 

I had  thought  in  my  chambers  to  place  it  in  view, 

To  be  shown  to  my  friends  as  a piece  of  virtu: 

As  in  some  Irish  houses  where  things  are  so-so, 

One  gammon  of  bacon  hangs  up  for  a show; 

But,  for  eating  a rasher,  of  what  they  take  pride  in, 

They’d  as  soon  think  of  eating  the  pan  it  was  fry’d  in, 
****** 

But  hang  it— to  poets,  who  seldom  can  eat, 

Your  very  good  mutton’s  a very  good  treat; 

Such  dainties  to  them,  their  health  it  might  hurt; 

IV  s like  sending  them  ruffles , when  wanting  a shirt” 

We  have  an  amusing  anecdote  of  one  of  Goldsmith’s  blun- 
ders which  took  place  on  a subsequent  visit  to  Lord  Clare’s, 
when  that  nobleman  was  residing  in  Bath. 

Lord  Clare  and  the  Duke  of  Northumberland  had  houses 
next  to  each  other,  of  similar  architecture.  Returning  home 
one  morning  from  an  early  walk,  Goldsmith,  in  one  of  his  fre- 
quent fits  of  absence,  mistook  the  house,  and  walked  up  into 
the  duke’s  dining-room,  where  he  and  the  duchess  were  about 
to  sit  down  to  breakfast.  Goldsmith,  still  supposing  himself 
in  the  house  of  Lord  Clare,  and  that  they  were  visitors,  made 
them  an  easy  salutation,  being  acquainted  with  them,  and 
threw  himself  on  a sofa  in  the  lounging  manner  of  a man  per- 
fectly at  home.  The  duke  and  duchess  soon  perceived  his 
mistake,  and,  while  they  smiled  internally,  endeavored,  with 
the  considerateness  of  well-bred  people,  to  prevent  any  awk 
ward  embarrassment.  They  accordingly  chatted  soeiably  with 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


181 


him  about  matters  in  Bath,  until,  breakfast  being  served,  they 
invited  him  to  partake.  The  truth  at  once  flashed  upon  poor 
heedless  Goldsmith;  he  started  up  from  his  free-and-easy  posi- 
tion, made  a confused  apology  for  his  blunder,  and  would  have 
retired  perfectly  disconcerted,  had  not  the  duke  and  ducness 
treated  the  whole  as  a lucky  occurrence  to  throw  him  in  their 
way,  and  exacted  a promise  from  him  to  dine  with  them. 

This  may  be  hung  up  as  a companion-piece  to  his  blunder  on 
his  first  visit  to  Northumberland  House. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

DINNER  AT  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY — THE  ROWLEY  CONTROVERSY  — • 
HORACE  WALPOLE’S  CONDUCT  TO  CHATTERTON— JOHNSON  AT 
REDCLIFFE  CHURCH  — GOLDSMITH’S  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND  — 
DAVIES’S  CRITICISM— LETTER  TO  BENNET  LANGTON. 

On  St.  George’s  day  of  this  year  (1771),  the  first  annual  ban- 
quet of  the  Royal  Academy  was  held  in  the  exhibition  room ; 
the  walls  of  which  were  covered  with  works  of  art,  about  to  be 
submitted  to  public  inspection.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  who  first 
suggested  this  elegant  festival,  presided  in  his  official  character; 
Drs.  Johnson  and  Goldsmith,  of  course,  were  present,  as  pro- 
fessors of  the  academy ; and  beside  the  academicians,  there  was 
a large  number  of  the  most  distinguished  men  of  the  day  as 
guests.  Goldsmith  on  this  occasion  drew  on  himself  the  atten- 
tion of  the  company  by  launching  out  with  enthusiasm  on  the 
poems  recently  given  to  the  world  by  Chatterton  as  the  works 
of  an  ancient  author  by  the  name  of  Rowley,  discovered  in  the 
tower  of  Redcliffe  Church,  at  Bristol.  Goldsmith  spoke  of  them 
with  rapture,  as  a treasure  of  old  English  poetry.  This  imme- 
diately raised  the  question  of  their  authenticity ; they  having 
been  pronounced  a forgery  of  Chatterton’s.  Goldsmith  was 
warm  for  their  being  genuine.  When  he  considered,  he  said, 
the  merit  of  the  poetry ; the  acquaintance  with  life  and  the 
human  heart  displayed  in  them,  the  antique  quaintness  of  the 
language  and  the  familiar  knowledge  of  historical  events  of 
their  supposed  day,  he  could  not  believe  it  possible  they  could 
be  the  work  of  a boy  of  sixteen,  of  narrow  education,  and  con- 
fined to  the  duties  of  an  attorney’s  office,  They  must  be  the 
productions  of  Rowley. 


182 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Johnson,  who  was  a stout  unbeliever  in  Rowley,  as  he  had 
been  in  Ossian,  rolled  in  his  chair  and  laughed  at  the  enthusi- 
asm of  Goldsmith.  Horace  Walpole,  who  sat  near  by,  joined 
in  the  laugh  and  jeer  as  soon  as  he  found  that  the  “ trouvaille ,” 
as  he  called  it,  “of  his  friend  Chatterton”  was  in  question. 
This  matter,  which  had  excited  the  simple  admiration  of  Gold- 
smith, was  no  novelty  to  him,  he  said.  “He  might,  had  ho 
pleased,  have  had  the  honor  of  ushering  the  great  discovery  to 
the  learned  world.”  And  so  he  might,  had  he  followed  his  first 
impulse  in  the  matter,  for  he  himself  had  been  an  original  be- 
liever ; had  pronounced  some  specimen  verses  sent  to  him  by 
Chatterton  wonderful  for  their  harmony  and  spirit ; and  had 
been  ready  to  print  them  and  publish  them  to  the  world  with 
his  sanction.  When  he  found,  however,  that  his  unknown  cor- 
respondent was  a mere  boy,  humble  in  sphere  and  indigent  in 
circumstances,  and  when  Gray  and  Mason  pronounced  the 
poems  forgeries,  he  had  changed  his  whole  conduct  toward  the 
unfortunate  author,  and  by  his  neglect  and  coldness  had  dashed 
all  his  sanguine  hopes  to  the  ground. 

Exulting  in  his  superior  discernment,  this  cold-hearted  man 
of  society  now  went  on  to  divert  himself,  as  he  says,  with  the 
credulity  of  Goldsmith,  whom  he  was  accustomed  to  pronounce 
“an  inspired  idiot;”  but  his  mirth  was  soon  dashed,  for  on  ask- 
ing the  poet  what  had  become  of  this  Chatterton,  he  was  an- 
swered, doubtless  in  the  feeling  tone  of  one  wdio  had  experi- 
enced the  pangs  of  despondent  genius,  that  4 ‘ he  had  been  to 
London  and  had  destroyed  himself.” 

The  reply  struck  a pang  of  self-reproach  even  to  the  cold 
heart  of  Walpole;  a faint  blush  may  have  visited  his  cheek  at 
his  recent  levity.  “The  persons  of  honor  and  veracity  who 
were  present,”  said  he  in  after  years,  when  he  found  it  neces- 
sary to  exculpate  himself  from  the  charge  of  heartless  neg- 
lect of  genius,  “will  attest  with  what  surprise  and  concern 
I thus  first  heard  of  his  death.”  Well  might  he  feel  concern. 
His  cold  neglect  had  doubtless  contributed  to  madden  the  spirit 
of  that  youthful  genius,  and  hurry  him  toward  his  untimely 
end;  nor  have  all  the  excuses  and  palliations  of  Walpole’s 
friends  and  admirers  been  ever  able  entirely  to  clear  this 
stigma  from  his  fame. 

But  what  was  there  in  the  enthusiasm  and  credulity  of  hon- 
est Goldsmith  in  this  matter,  to  subject  him  to  the  laugh  of 
Johnson  or  the  raillery  of  Walpole?  Granting  the  poems  were 
pot  ancient,  were  they  not  good?  Granting  they  were  not  the 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


183 


productions  of  Rowley,  were  they  the  less  admirable  for  being 
the  productions  of  Chatterton?  Johnson  himself  testified  to 
their  merits  and  the  genius  of  their  composer  when,  some  years 
afterward,  he  visited  the  tower  of  Redcliffe  Church,  and  was 
shown  the  coffer  in  which  poor  Chatterton  had  pretended  to 
find  them.  “ This,”  said  he,  “ is  the  most  extraordinary  young 
man  that  has  encountered  my  knowledge.  It  is  wonderful  how 
the  whelp  has  written  such  things .” 

As  to  Goldsmith,  he  persisted  in  his  credulity,  and  had  sub" 
sequently  a dispute  with  Dr.  Percy  on  the  subject,  which  in< 
terrupted  and  almost  destroyed  their  friendship.  After  all,  his 
enthusiasm  was  of  a generous,  poetic  kind ; the  poems  remain 
beautiful  monuments  of  genius,  and  it  is  even  now  difficult  to 
persuade  one’s  self  that  they  could  be  entirely  the  production 
of  a youth  of  sixteen. 

In  the  month  of  August  was  published  anonymously  the  His- 
tory of  England,  on  which  Goldsmith  had  been  for  some  time 
employed.  It  was  in  four  volumes,  compiled  chiefly,  as  he  ac- 
knowledged in  the  preface,  from  Rapin,  Carte,  Smollett,  and 
Hume,  4 ‘ each  of  whom,  ” says  he,  ‘ 4 have  their  admirers,  in 
proportion  as  the  reader  is  studious  of  political  antiquities, 
fond  of  minute  anecdote,  a warm  partisan,  or  a deliberate  rea- 
soned ” It  possessed  the  same  kind  of  merit  as  his  other  his- 
torical compilations ; a clear,  succinct  narrative,  a simple,  easy, 
and  graceful  style,  and  an  agreeable  arrangement  of  facts ; but 
was  not  remarkable  for  either  depth  of  observation  or  minute 
accuracy  of  research.  Many  passages  were  transferred,  with 
little  if  any  alteration,  from  his  “Letters  from  a Nobleman  to 
his  Son”  on  the  same  subject.  The  work,  though  written  with- 
out party  feeling,  met  with  sharp  animadversions  from  political 
scribblers.  The  writer  was  charged  with  being  unfriendly  to 
liberty,  disposed  to  elevate  monarchy  above  its  proper  sphere ; 
a tool  of  ministers ; one  who  would  betray  his  country  for  a 
pension.  Tom  Davies,  the  publisher,  the  pompous  little  bibli- 
opole of  Russell  Street,  alarmed  lest  the  book  should  prove 
unsalable,  undertook  to  protect  it  by  his  pen,  and  wrote  a long 
article  in  its  defence  in  The  Public  Advertiser . He  was  vain  of 
his  critical  effusion,  and  sought  by  nods  and  winks  and  innuen- 
does to  intimate  his  authorship.  “Have  you  seen,”  said  he  in  a 
letter  to  a friend,  4 4 4 An  Impartial  Account  of  Goldsmith’s  His- 
tory of  England  ’ ? If  you  want  to  know  who  was  the  writer  of 
it,  you  will  find  him  in  Russell  Street ; — but  mum ! ” 

The  history,  on  the  whole,  however,  was  well  received ; some 


184 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


of  the  critics  declared  that  English  history  had  never  before 
been  so  usefully,  so  elegantly,  and  agreeably  epitomized,  “and, 
like  his  other  historical  writings,  it  has  kept  its  ground  ” in 
English  literature. 

Goldsmith  had  intended  this  summer,  in  company  with  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  to  pay  a visit  to  Bonnet  Langton,  at  his  seat 
in  Lincolnshire,  where  lie  was  settled  in  domestic  life,  having 
the  year  previously  married  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Rothes. 
The  following  letter,  however,  dated  from  his  chambers  in  the 
Temple,  on  the  7tli  of  September,  apologizes  for  putting  off  the 
visit,  while  it  gives  an  amusing  account  of  his  summer  occu- 
pations and  of  the  attacks  of  the  critics  on  his  History  of  Eng- 
land : 

‘ ‘ My  dear  Sir  : Since  I had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  last, 
I have  been  almost  wholly  in  the  country,  at  a farmer’s  house, 
quite  alone,  trying  to  write  a comedy.  It  is  now  finished ; but 
when  or  how  it  will  be  acted,  or  whether  it  will  be  acted  at  all, 
are  questions  I cannot  resolve.  I am  therefore  so  much  em- 
ployed upon  that,  that  I am  under  the  necessity  of  putting  off 
my  intended  visit  to  Lincolnshire  for  this  season.  Reynolds  is 
just  returned  from  Paris,  and  finds  himself  now  in  the  case  of 
a truant  that  must  make  up  for  his  idle  time  by  diligence. 
We  have  therefore  agreed  to  postpone  our  journey  till  next 
summer,  ^vhen  we  hope  to  have  the  honor  of  waiting  upon 
Lady  Rothes  and  you,  and  staying  double  the  time  of  our  late 
intended  visit.  We  often  meet,  and  never  without  remember- 
ing you.  I see  Mr.  Beauclerc  very  often  both  in  town  and 
country.  He  is  now  going  directly  forward  to  become  a second 
Boyle ; deep  in  chemistry  and  physics.  Johnson  has  been  down 
on  a visit  to  a country  parson,  Doctor  Taylor ; and  is  returned 
to  his  old  haunts  at  Mrs.  Thrale’s.  Burke  is  a farmer,  en  atten- 
dant a better  place;  hut  visiting  about  too.  Every  soul  is 
visiting  about  and  merry  but  myself.  And  that  is  hard  too,  as 
I have  been  trying  these  three  months  to  do  something  to  make 
people  laugh.  There  have  I been  strolling  about  the  hedges, 
studying  jests  with  a most  tragical  countenance.  The  Natural 
History  is  about  half  finished,  and  I will  shortly  finish  the  rest. 
God  knows  I am  tired  of  this  kind  of  finishing,  which  is  but 
bungling  work ; and  that  not  so  much  my  fault  as  the  fault  of 
my  scurvy  circumstances.  They  begin  to  talk  in  town  of  the 
Opposition’s  gaining  ground ; the  cry  of  liberty  is  still  as  loud 
as  ever.  I hax e published,  or  Davies  has  published  for  me,  an 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


185 


1 Abridgment  of  the  History  of  England,’  for  which  I have 
been  a good  deal  abused  in  the  newspapers,  for  betraying  the 
liberties  of  the  people.  God  knows  I had  no  thought  for  or 
against  liberty  in  my  head ; my  whole  aim  being  to  make  up  a 
book  of  a decent  size,  that,  as  ’Squire  Richard  says,  would  do  no 
harm  to  nobody.  However,  they  set  me  down  as  an  arrant 
Tory,  and  consequently  an  honest  man.  When  you  come  to 
look  at  any  part  of  it,  you’ll  say  that  I am  a sore  Whig.  God 
bless  you,  and  with  my  most  respectful  compliments  to  her 
Ladyship,  I remain,  dear  Sir,  your  most  affectionate  humble 
servant, 

“ Oliver  Goldsmith.” 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

MARRIAGE  OF  LITTLE  COMEDY  -GOLDSMITH  AT  BARTON— PRACTI- 
CAL JOKES  AT  THE  EXPENSE  OF  HIS  TOILET — AMUSEMENTS  AT 

BARTON— AQUATIC  MISADVENTURE. 

Though  Goldsmith  found  it  impossible  to  break  from  his 
literary  occupations  to  visit  Bennet  Langton,  in  Lincolnshire, 
he  soon  yielded  to  attractions  from  another  quarter,  in  which 
somewhat  of  sentiment  may  have  mingled.  Miss  Catherine 
Horneck,  one  of  his  beautiful  fellow-travellers,  otherwise  called 
Little  Comedy , had  been  married  in  August  to  Henry  William 
Bunbury , Esq. , a gentleman  of  fortune,  who  has  become  cele- 
brated for  the  humorous  productions  of  his  pencil.  Goldsmith 
was  shortly  afterward  invited  to  pay  the  newly  married  couple 
a visit  at  their  seat  at  Barton,  in  Suffolk.  How  could  he  re- 
sist such  an  invitation— especially  as  the  Jessamy  Bride  would, 
of,  course,  be  among  the  guests?  It  is  true,  he  was  hampered 
with  work ; he  was  still  more  hampered  with  debt ; his  accounts 
with  Newbery  were  perplexed ; but  all  must  give  way.  New 
advances  are  procured  from  Newbery,  on  the  promise  of  a new 
tale  in  the  style  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  of  which  he  showed 
him  a few  roughly-sketched  chapters ; so,  his  purse  replenished 
in  the  old  way,  ‘ ‘ by  hook  or  by  crook,  ” he  posted  off  to  visit 
the  bride  at  Barton.  He  found  there  a joyous  household,  and 
one  where  he  was  welcomed  with  affection.  Garrick  was 
there,  and  played  the  part  of  master  of  the  revels,  for  he  was 


186 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


an  intimate  friend  of  the  master  of  the  house.  Not  withstand’ 
ing  early  misunderstandings,  a social  intercourse  between  the 
actor  and  the  poet  had  grown  up  of  late,  from  meeting  together 
continually  in  the  same  circle.  A few  particulars  have  reached 
us  concerning  Goldsmith  while  on  this  happy  visit.  We  be- 
lieve the  legend  has  come  down  from  Miss  Mary  Horneck  her- 
self. “While  at  Barton,”  she  says,  44  his  manners  were  always 
playful  and  amusing,  taking  the  lead  in  promoting  any  scheme 
of  innocent  mirth,  and  usually  prefacing  the  invitation  with 
4 Come,  now,  let  us  play  the  fool  a little.’  At  cards,  which  was 
commonly  a round  game,  and  the  stake  small,  he  was  always 
the  most  noisy,  affected  great  eagerness  to  win,  and  teased  his 
opponents  of  the  gentler  sex  with  continual  jest  and  banter  on 
their  want  of  spirit  in  not  risking  the  hazards  of  the  game. 
But  one  of  his  most  favorite  enjoyments  was  to  romp  with  the 
children,  when  he  threw  off  all  reserve,  and  seemed  one  of  the 
most  joyous  of  the  group. 

“One  of  the  means  by  which  he  amused  us  was  his  songs, 
chiefly  of  the  comic  kind,  which  were  sung  with  some  taste 
and  humor;  several,  I believe,  were  of  his  own  composition, 
and  I regret  that  I neither  have  copies,  which  might  have  been 
readily  procured  from  him  at  the  time,  nor  do  I remember  their 
names.  ” 

His  perfect  good  humor  made  him  the  object  of  tricks  of  all 
kinds ; often  in  retaliation  of  some  prank  which  he  himself  had 
played  off.  Unluckily  these  tricks  were  sometimes  made  at 
the  expense  of  his  toilet,  which,  with  a view  peradventure  to 
please  the  eye  of  a certain  fair  lady,  he  had  again  enriched  to 
the  impoverishment  of  his  purse.  4 4 Being  at  all  times  gay  in 
his  dress,”  says  this  ladylike  legend,  44  he  made  his  appearance 
at  the  breakfast-table  in  a smart  black  silk  coat  with  an  expen- 
sive pair  of  ruffles ; the  coat  some  one  contrived  to  soil,  and  it 
was  sent  to  be  cleansed ; but,  either  by  accident,  or  probably 
by  design,  the  day  after  it  came  home,  the  sleeves  became 
daubed  with  paint,  which  was  not  discovered  until  the  ruffles 
also,  to  his  great  mortification,  were  irretrievably  disfigured. 

44  He  always  wore  a wig,  a peculiarity  which  those  who  judge 
of  his  appearance  only  from  the  fine  poetical  head  of  Reynolds 
would  not  suspect ; and  on  one  occasion  some  person  contrived 
seriously  to  injure  this  important  adjunct  to  dress.  It  was  the 
only  one  he  had  in  the  country,  and  the  misfortune  seemed  ir- 
reparable until  the  services  of  Mr.  Bunbury’s  valet  were  called 
in,  who,  however,  performed  his  functions  so  indifferently  that 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  187 

poor  Goldsmith’s  appearance  became  the  signal  for  a general 
smile.  ” 

This  was  wicked  waggery,  especially  when  it  was  directed  to 
mar  all  the  attempts  of  the  unfortunate  poet  to  improve  his 
personal  appearance,  about  which  he  was  at  all  times  dubiously 
sensitive,  and  particularly  when  among  the  ladies. 

We  have  in  a former  chapter  recorded  his  unlucky  tumble 
into  a fountain  at  Versailles,  when  attempting  a feat  of  agility 
in  presence  of  the  fair  Hornecks.  Water  was  destined  to  be 
equally  baneful  to  him  on  the  present  occasion.  u Some  differ- 
ence of  opinion,”  says  the  fair  narrator,  “ having  arisen  with 
Lord  Harrington  respecting  the  depth  of  a pond,  the  poet  re- 
marked that  it  was  not  so  deep  but  that,  if  anything  valuable 
was  to  be  found  at  the  bottom,  he  would  not  hesitate  to  pick  it 
up.  His  lordship,  after  some  banter,  threw  in  a guinea ; Gold- 
smith, not  to  be  outdone  in  this  kind  of  bravado,  in  attempting 
to  fulfil  his  promise  without  getting  wet,  accidentally  fell  in, 
to  the  amusement  of  all  present,  but  persevered,  brought  out 
the  money,  and  kept  it,  remarking  that  he  had  abundant  ob- 
jects on  whom  to  bestow  any  farther  proofs  of  his  lordship’s 
whim  or  bounty.  ” 

All  this  is  recorded  by  the  beautiful  Mary  Horneck,  the  Jes- 
samy  Bride  herself ; but  while  she  gives  these  amusing  pictures 
of  poor  Goldsmith’s  eccentricities,  and  of  the  mischievous 
pranks  played  off  upon  him,  she  bears  unqualified  testimony, 
which  we  have  quoted  elsewhere,  to  the  qualities  of  his  head 
and  heart,  which  shone  forth  in  his  countenance,  and  gained 
him  the  love  of  all  who  knew  him. 

Among  the  circumstances  of  this  visit  vaguely  called  to  mind 
by  this  fair  lady  in  after  years,  was  that  Goldsmith  read  to  her 
and  her  sister  the  first  part  of  a novel  which  he  had  in  hand. 
It  was  doubtless  the  manuscript  mentioned  at  the  beginning  of 
this  chapter,  on  which  he  had  obtained  an  advance  of  money 
from  Newbery  to  stave  off  some  pressing  debts,  and  to  provide 
funds  for  this  very  visit.  It  never  was  finished.  The  book- 
seller, when  he  came  afterward  to  examine  the  manuscript, 
objected  to  it  as  a mere  narrative  version  of  the  Good-Natured 
Man.  Goldsmith,  too  easily  put  out  of  conceit  of  his  writings, 
threw  it  aside,  forgetting  that  this  was  the  very  Newbery  who 
kept  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield  by  him  nearly  two  years  through 
doubts  of  its  success.  The  loss  of  the  manuscript  is  deeply  to 
be  regretted ; it  doubtless  would  have  been  properly  wrought 
up  before  given  to  the  press,  and  might  have  given  us  new 


188 


OLIVER  GOLD  SMITH. 


scenes  in  life  and  traits  of  character,  while  it  could  not  fail  to 
bear  traces  of  his  delightful  style.  What  a pity  he  had  not 
been  guided  by  the  opinions  of  his  fair  listeners  at  Barton, 
instead  of  that  of  the  astute  Mr.  Newbeiy ! 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

DINNER  AT  GENERAL  OGLETHORPE’S — ANECDOTES  OF  THE  GEN- 
ERAL— DISPUTE  ABOUT  DUELLING — GHOST  STORIES. 

We  have  mentioned  old  General  Oglethorpe  as  one  of  Gold- 
smith’s aristocratical  acquaintances.  This  veteran,  born  in 
1698,  had  commenced  life  early,  by  serving,  when  a mere  strip- 
ling, under  Prince  Eugene,  against  the  Turks.  He  had  con- 
tinued in  military  life,  and  been  promoted  to  the  rank  of  major- 
general  in  1745,  and  received  a command  during  the  Scottish 
rebellion.  Being  of  strong  Jacobite  tendencies,  he  was  suspected 
and  accused  of  favoring  the  rebels ; and  though  acquitted  by  a 
court  of  inquiry,  was  never  afterward  employed ; or,  in  techni- 
cal language,  was  shelved.  He  had  since  been  repeatedly  a 
member  of  parliament,  and  had  always  distinguished  himself 
by  learning,  taste,  active  benevolence,  and  high  Tory  principles. 
His  name,  however,  has  become  historical,  chiefly  from  his 
transactions  in  America,  and  the  share  he  took  in  the  settle- 
ment of  the  colony  of  Georgia.  It  lies  enbalmed  in  honorable 
immortality  in  a single  line  of  Pope’s : 

“ One,  driven  by  strong  benevolence  of  soul, 

Shall  fly,  like  Oglethorpe,  from  pole  to  pole.” 

The  veteran  was  now  seventy-four  years  of  age,  but  healthy 
and  vigorous,  and  as  much  the  preux  chevalier  as  in  his 
younger  days,  when  he  served  with  Prince  Eugene.  His  table 
was  often  the  gathering-place  of  men  of  talent.  Johnson  was 
frequently  there,  and  delighted  in  drawing  from  the  general 
details  of  his  various  “ experiences.”  He  was  anxious  that  he 
should  give  the  world  his  life.  “I  know  no  man,”  said  he, 
‘‘whose  life  would  be  more  interesting.”  Still  the  vivacity  of 
the  general's  mind  and  the  variety  of  his  knowledge  made  him 
skip  from  subject  to  subject  too  fast  for  the  Lexicographer. 
“ Oglethorpe,”  growled  he,  “never  completes  what  he  has  to 
gay,” 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


189 


Boswell  gives  us  an  interesting  and  characteristic  account  of 
a dinner  party  at  the  general’s  (April  10th,  1772),  at  which 
Goldsmith  and  Johnson  were  present.  After  dinner,  when  the 
cloth  was  removed,  Oglethorpe,  at  Johnson’s  request,  gave  an 
account  of  the  siege  of  Belgrade,  in  the  true  veteran  style. 
Pouring  a little  wine  upon  the  table,  he  drew  his  lines  and  par- 
allels with  a wet  finger,  describing  the  positions  of  the  opposing 
forces.  “ Here  were  we — here  were  the  Turks,”  to  all  which 
Johnson  listened  with  the  most  earnest  attention,  poring  over 
the  plans  and  diagrams  with  his  usual  purblind  closeness. 

In  the  course  of  conversation,  the  general  gave  an  anecdote 
of  himself  in  early  life,  when  serving  under  Prince  Eugene. 
Sitting  at  table  once  in  company  with  a prince  of  Wurtcm- 
berg,  the  latter  gave  a fillip  to  a glass  of  wine,  so  as  to  make 
some  of  it  fly  in  Oglethorpe’s  face.  The  manner  in  which  it 
was  done  was  somewhat  equivocal.  How  was  it  to  be  taken 
by  the  stripling  officer?  If  seriously,  he  must  challenge  the 
prince ; but  in  so  doing  he  might  fix  on  himself  the  character 
of  a drawcansir.  If  passed  over  without  notice,  he  might  be 
charged  with  cowardice.  His  mind  was  made  up  in  an  in- 
stant. “ Prince,”  said  he,  smiling,  uthat  is  an  excellent  joke; 
but  we  do  it  much  better  in  England.”  So  saying,  he  threw  a 
whole  glass  of  wine  in  the  prince’s  face.  1 ‘ II  a bien  fait,  mon 
prince,”  cried  an  old  general  present,  “ vous  l’avez  commence.” 
(He  has  done  right,  my  prince;  you  commenced  it.)  The 
prince  had  the  good  sense  to  acquiesce  in  the  decision  of  the 
veteran,  and  Oglethorpe’s  retort  in  kind  was  taken  in  good 
part. 

It  was  probably  at  the  close  of  this  story  that  the  officious 
Boswell,  ever  anxious  to  promote  conversation  for  the  benefit 
of  his  note-book,  started  the  question  whether  duelling  were 
consistent  with  moral  duty.  The  old  gentleman  fired  up  in 
an  instant.  “ Undoubtedly,”  said  he,  with  a lofty  air;  “un- 
doubtedly a man  has  a right  to  defend  his  honor.”  Goldsmith 
immediately  carried  the  war  into  Boswell’s  own  quarters,  and 
pinned  him  with  the  question,  “what  he  would  do  if  affronted?” 
The  pliant  Boswell,  who  for  the  moment  had  the  fear  of  the 
general  rather  than  of  Johnson  before  his  eyes,  replied,  “he 
should  think  it  necessary  to  fight.”  “Why,  then,  that  solves 
the  question,”  replied  Goldsmith.  “No,  sir!”  thundered  out 
Johnson;  “it  does  not  follow  that  what  a man  would  do,  is 
therefore  right.”  He,  however,  subsequently  went  into  a dis- 
cussion to  show  that  there  were  necessities  in  the  case  arising 


190 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


out  of  the  artificial  refinement  of  society,  and  its  proscription 
of  any  one  who  should  put  up  with  an  affront  without  fighting 
a duel.  “He  then,”  concluded  he,  “who  fights  a duel  does 
not  fight  from  passion  against  his  antagonist,  but  out  of  self- 
defence,  to  avert  the  stigma  of  the  world,  and  to  prevent  him- 
self from  being  driven  out  of  society.  I could  wish  there  were 
not  that  superfluity  of  refinement ; but  while  such  notions  pre- 
vail, no  doubt  a man  may  lawfully  fight  a duel.” 

Another  question  started  was,  whether  people  who  disagreed 
on  a capital  point  could  live  together  in  friendship.  Johnson 
said  they  might.  Goldsmith  said  they  could  not,  as  they  had 
not  the  idem  velle  atque  idem  nolle— the  same  likings  and 
aversions.  Johnson  rejoined,  that  they  must  shun  the  subject 
on  which  they  disagreed.  “But,  sir,”  said  Goldsmith,  “when 
people  live  together  who  have  something  as  to  which  they  dis- 
agree, and  which  they  want  to  shun,  they  will  be  in  the  situa- 
tion mentioned  in  the  story  of  Blue  Beard : ‘ you  may  look  into 
all  the  chambers  but  one but  we  should  have  the  greatest  in- 
clination to  look  into  that  chamber,  to  talk  of  that  subject.” 
“Sir,”  thundered  Johnson,  in  a loud  voice,  “ I am  not  saying 
that  you  could  live  in  friendship  with  a man  from  whom  you 
differ  as  to  some  point;  I am  only  saying  that  I could  do  it.” 
Who  will  not  say  that  Goldsmith  had  the  best  of  this  petty 
contest?  How  just  was  his  remark!  how  felicitous  the  illus- 
tration of  the  blue  chamber ! how  rude  and  overbearing  was 
the  argumentum  ad  hominem  of  Johnson,  when  he  felt  that 
he  had  the  worst  of  the  argument ! 

The  conversation  turned  upon  ghosts.  General  Oglethorpe 
told  the  story  of  a Colonel  Prendergast,  an  officer  in  the  Duke 
of  Marlborough’s  army,  who  predicted  among  his  comrades 
that  he  should  die  on  a certain  day.  The  battle  of  Malplaquet 
took  place  on  that  day.  The  colonel  was  in  the  midst  of  it, 
but  came  out  unhurt.  The  firing  had  ceased,  and  his  brother 
officers  jested  with  him  about  the  fallacy  of  his  prediction. 
“The  day  is  not  over,”  replied  he,  gravely;  “I  shall  die,  not- 
withstanding what  you  see.”  His  words  proved  true.  The 
order  for  a cessation  of  firing  had  not  reached  one  of  the 
French  batteries,  and  a random  shot  from  it  killed  the  colonel 
on  the  spot.  Among  his  effects  was  found  a pocket-book,  in 
which  he  had  made  a solemn  entry,  that  Sir  John  Friend,  who 
had  been  executed  for  high  treason,  had  appeared  to  him, 
either  in  a dream  or  vision,  and  predicted  that  he  would  meet 
him  on  a certain  day  (the  very  day  of  the  battle).  Colonel 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


101 


Cecil,  who  took  possession  of  the  effects  of  Colonel  Prender- 
gast,  and  read  the  entry  in  the  pocket-book,  told  this  story  to 
Pope,  the  poet,  in  the  presence  of  General  Oglethorpe. 

This  story,  as  related  by  the  general,  appears  to  have  been 
well  received,  if  not  credited,  by  both  Johnson  and  Goldsmith, 
each  of  whom  had  something  to  relate  in  kind.  Goldsmith’s 
brother,  the  clergyman  in  whom  he  had  such  implicit  confi- 
dence, had  assured  him  of  his  having  seen  an  apparition. 
Johnson  also  had  a friend,  old  Mr.  Cave,  the  printer,  at  St. 
John’s  Gate,  “an  honest  man,  and  a sensible  man,”  who  told 
him  he  had  seen  a ghost : he  did  not,  however,  like  to  talk  of 
it,  and  seemed  to  be  in  great  horror  whenever  it  was  men- 
tioned. “And  pray,  sir,”  asked  Boswell,  “what  did  he  say 
was  the  appearance?” 

“Why,  sir,  something  of  a shadowy  being.” 

The  reader  will  not  be  surprised  at  this  superstitious  turn  in 
the  conversation  of  such  intelligent  men,  when  he  recollects 
that,  but  a few  years  before  this  time,  all  London  had  been 
agitated  by  the  absurd  story  of  the  Cock-lane  ghost ; a matter 
which  Dr.  Johnson  had  deemed  worthy  of  his  serious  investi- 
gation, and  about  which  Goldsmith  had  written  a pamphlet. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

MR.  JOSEPH  CRADOCK— AN  AUTHOR’S  CONFIDINGS— AN  AMANUEN- 
SIS—LIFE  AT  EDGEWARE  — GOLDSMITH  CONJURING — GEORGE 
COLMAN— THE  FANTOCCINI. 

Among  the  agreeable  acquaintances  made  by  Goldsmith 
about  this  time  was  a Mr.  Joseph  Cradock,  a young  gentleman 
of  Leicestershire,  living  at  his  ease,  but  disposed  to  ‘ ‘ make 
himself  uneasy,”  by  meddling  with  literature  and  the  theatre; 
in  fact,  he  had  a passion  for  plays  and  players,  and  had  come 
up  to  town  with  a modified  translation  of  Voltaire’s  tragedy  of 
Zobeide , in  a view  to  get  it  acted.  There  was  no  great  diffi- 
culty in  the  case,  as  he  was  a man  of  fortune,  had  letters  of 
introduction  to  persons  of  note,  and  was  altogether  in  a dif- 
ferent position  from  the  indigent  man  of  genius  whom  mana- 
gers might  harass  with  impunity.  Goldsmith  met  him  at  the 
house  of  Yates,  the  actor,  and  finding  that  he  was  a friend  of 


192 


ol  i vi  :n  a o l ns  mi  nr. 


Lord  Clare,  soon  became  sociable  with  him.  Mutual  tastes 
quickened  the  intimacy,  especially  as  they  found  means  of 
serving  eacli  other.  Goldsmith  wrote  an  epilogue  for  the  tra- 
gedy of  Zobeide;  and  Cradock,  who  was  an  amateur  musician, 
arranged  the  music  for  the  Threnodia  Augustalis,  a lament  on 
the  death  of  the  Princess  Dowager  of  Wales,  the  political  mis- 
tress and  patron  of  Lord  Clare,  which  Goldsmith  had  thrown 
off  hastily  to  please  that  nobleman.  The  tragedy  was  played 
with  some  success  at  Covent  Garden ; the  Lament  was  recited 
and  sung  at  Mrs.  Cornelys’  rooms — a very  fashionable  resort  in 
Soho  Square,  got  up  by  a woman  of  enterprise  of  that  name. 
It  was  in  whimsical  parody  of  those  gay  and  somewhat  pro- 
miscuous assemblages  that  Goldsmith  used  to  call  the  motley 
evening  parties  at  his  lodgings  ‘‘little  Cornelys.” 

The  Threnodia  Augustalis  was  not  publicly  known  to  be  by 
Goldsmith  until  several  years  after  his  death. 

Cradock  was  one  of  the  few  polite  intimates  who  felt  more 
disposed  to  sympathize  with  the  generous  qualities  of  the  poet 
than  to  sport  with  his  eccentricities.  He  sought  his  society 
whenever  he  came  to  town,  and  occasionally  had  him  to  his 
seat  in  the  country.  Goldsmith  appreciated  his  sympathy, 
and  unburthened  himself  to  him  without  reserve.  Seeing  the 
lettered  ease  in  which  this  amateur  author  was  enabled  to  live, 
and  the  time  he  could  bestow  on  the  elaboration  of  a manu- 
script, ‘ ‘ Ah ! Mr.  Cradock,  ” cried  he,  ‘ ‘ think  of  me  that  must 
write  a volume  every  month !”  He  complained  to  him  of  the 
attempts  made  by  inferior  writers,  and  by  others  who  could 
scarcely  come  under  that  denomination,  not  only  to  abuse  and 
depreciate  his  writings,  but  to  render  him  ridiculous  as  a man ; 
perverting  every  harmless  sentiment  and  action  into  charges 
of  absurdity,  malice,  or  folly.  “Sir,”  said  he,  in  the  fulness  of 
his  heart,  “I  am  as  a lion  baited  by  curs !” 

Another  acquaintance  which  he  made  about  this  time,  was 
a young  countryman  of  the  name  of  M ‘Donnell,  whom  he  met 
in  a state  of  destitution,  and,  of  course,  befriended.  The  fol- 
lowing grateful  recollections  of  his  kindness  and  his  merits 
were  furnished  by  that  person  in  after  years : 

“ It  was  in  the  year  1772,”  writes  he,  “that  the  death  of  my 
elder  brother — when  in  London,  on  my  way  to  Ireland  —left 
me  in  a most  forlorn  situation ; I was  then  about  eighteen ; I 
possessed  neither  friends  nor  money,  nor  the  means  of  getting 
to  Ireland,  of  which  or  of  Fngland  I knew  scarcely  anything, 
from  having  so  long  resided  in  France.  In  this  situation  I had 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


193 


strolled  about  for  two  or  three  days,  considering  what  to  do, 
but  unable  to  come  to  any  determination,  when  Providence 
directed  me  to  the  Temple  Gardens.  I threw  myself  on  a seat, 
and,  willing  to  forget  my  miseries  for  a moment,  drew  out  a 
book;  that  book  was  a volume  of  Boileau.  I had  not  been 
there  long  when  a gentleman,  strolling  about,  passed  near  me, 
and  observing,  perhaps,  something  Irish  or  foreign  in  my  garb 
or  countenance,  addressed  me : ‘ Sir,  you  seem  studious ; I hope 
you  find  this  a favorable  place  to  pursue  it.’  ‘ Not  very  studi- 
ous, sir;  I fear  it  is  the  want  of  society  that  brings  me  hither; 
I am  solitary  and  unknown  in  this  metropolis ;’  and  a passage 
from  Cicero— Oratio  pro  Archia— occurring  to  me,  I quoted  it; 
‘Haec  studia  pernoctant  nobiscum,  peregrinantur,  rusticantur.’ 

‘ You  are  a scholar,  too,  sir,  I perceive.  ’ ‘ A piece  of  one,  sir ; 

but  I ought  still  to  have  been  in  the  college  where  I had  the 
good  fortune  to  pick  up  the  little  I know.’  A good  deal  of  con- 
versation ensued ; I told  him  part  of  my  history,  and  he,  in 
return,  gave  his  address  in  the  Temple,  desiring  me  to  call 
soon,  from  which,  to  my  infinite  surprise  and  gratification,  I 
found  that  the  person  who  thus  seemed  to  take  an  interest  in 
my  fate  was  my  countryman,  and  a distinguished  ornament  of 
letters. 

“I  did  not  fail  to  keep  the  appointment,  and  was  received  in 
the  kindest  manner.  He  told  me,  smilingly,  that  he  was  not 
rich ; that  he  could  do  little  for  me  in  direct  pecuniary  aid,  but 
would  endeavor  to  put  me  in  the  way  of  doing  something  for 
myself ; observing,  that  he  could  at  least  furnish  me  with  ad- 
vice not  wholly  useless  to  a young  man  placed  in  the  heart  or' 
a great  metropolis.  ‘ In  London,’  he  continued,  ‘nothing  is  to 
be  got  for  nothing ; you  must  work ; and  no  man  who  chooses 
to  be  industrious  need  be  under  obligations  to  another,  for 
here  labor  of  every  kind  commands  its  reward.  If  you 
think  proper  to  assist  me  occasionally  as  amanuensis,  I shall 
be  obliged,  and  you  will  be  placed  under  no  obligation,  until 
something  more  permanent  can  be  secured  for  you.’  This 
employment,  which  I pursued  for  some  time,  was  to  translate 
passages  from  Buffon,  which  was  abridged  or  altered,  accord- 
ing to  circumstances,  for  his  Natural  History.” 

Goldsmith’s  literary  tasks  were  fast  getting  ahead  of  him^ 
and  he  began  now  to  ‘ ‘ toil  after  them  in  vain.  ” 

Five  volumes  of  the  Natural  History  here  spoken  of  had  long 
since  been  paid  for  by  Mr.  Griffin,  yet  most  of  them  were  still 
to  be  written.  His  young  amanuensis  bears  testimony  to  his 


194 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


embarrassments  and  perplexities,  but  to  the  degree  of  equa 
nimity  with  which  he  bore  them : 

“It  has  been  said,”  observes  he,  “that  he  was  irritable. 
Such  may  have  been  the  case  at  times ; nay,  I believe  it  was 
so ; for  what  with  the  continual  pursuit  of  authors,  printers, 
and  booksellers,  and  occasional  pecuniary  embarrassments, 
few  could  have  avoided  exhibiting  similar  marks  of  impa- 
tience. But  it  was  never  so  toward  me.  I saw  him  only  in 
his  bland  and  kind  moods,  with  a flow,  perhaps  an  overflow, 
of  the  milk  of  human  kindness  for  all  who  were  in  any  manner 
dependent  upon  him.  I looked  upon  him  with  awe  and  venera- 
tion, and  he  upon  me  as  a kind  of  parent  upon  a child. 

“His  manner  and  address  exhibited  much  frankness  and 
cordiality,  particularly  to  those  with  whom  he  possessed  any 
degree  of  intimacy.  His  good-nature  was  equally  apparent. 
You  could  not  dislike  the  man,  although  several  of  his  follies 
and  foibles  you  might  be  tempted  to  condemn.  He  was 
generous  and  inconsiderate ; money  with  him  had  little 
value.” 

To  escape  from  many  of  the  tormentors  just  alluded  to,  and 
to  devote  himself  without  interruption  to  his  task,  Godsmith 
took  lodgings  for  the  summer  at  a farm-house  near  the  six-mile 
stone  on  the  Edgeware  road,  and  carried  down  his  books  in 
two  return  post-chaises.  He  used  to  say  he  believed  the 
farmer’s  family  thought  him  an  odd  character,  similar  to  that 
in  which  the  Spectator  appeared  to  his  landlady  and  her  chil- 
dren : he  was  The  Gentleman.  Boswell  tells  us  that  he  went 
to  visit  him  at  the  place  in  company  with  Mickle,  translator  of 
the  Lusiad.  Goldsmith  was  not  at  home.  Having  a curiosity 
to  see  his  apartment,  however,  they  went  in,  and  found  curi- 
ous scraps  of  descriptions  of  animals  scrawled  upon  the  wall 
with  a black  lead  pencil. 

The  farm-house  in  question  is  still  in  existence,  though  much 
altered.  It  stands  upon  a gentle  eminence  in  Hyde  Lane,  com- 
manding a pleasant  prospect  toward  Hendon.  The  room  is 
still  pointed  out  in  which  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  was  written ; 
a convenient  and  airy  apartment,  up  one  flight  of  stairs. 

Some  matter  of  fact  traditions  concerning  the  author  were 
furnished,  a few  years  since,  by  a son  of  the  farmer,  who  was 
sixteen  years  of  age  at  the  time  Goldsmith  resided  with  his 
father.  Though  he  had  engaged  to  board  with  the  family,  his 
meals  were  generally  sent  to  him  in  his  room,  in  which  he 
passed  the  most  of  his  time,  negligently  dressed,  with  his  shirt* 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


195 


collar  open,  busily  engaged  in  writing.  Sometimes,  probably 
when  in  moods  of  composition,  he  would  wander  into  the 
kitchen,  without  noticing  any  one,  stand  musing  with  his  back 
to  the  fire,  and  then  hurry  off  again  to  his  room,  no  doubt  to 
commit  to  paper  some  thought  which  had  struck  him. 

Sometimes  he  strolled  about  the  fields,  or  was  to  be  seen 
loitering  and  reading  and  musing  under  the  hedges.  He  was 
subject  to  fits  of  wakefulness  and  read  much  in  bed;  if  not  dis- 
posed to  read,  he  still  kept  the  candle  burning ; if  he  wished  to 
extinguish  it,  and  it  was  out  of  his  reach,  he  flung  his  slipper 
at  it,  which  would  be  found  in  the  morning  near  the  over- 
turned candlestick  and  daubed  with  grease.  He  was  noted 
here,  as  everywhere  else,  for  his  charitable  feelings.  No  beg- 
gar applied  to  him  in  vain,  and  he  evinced  on  all  occasions 
great  commiseration  for  the  poor. 

He  had  the  use  of  the  parlor  to  receive  and  entertain  com- 
pany, and  was  visited  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Hugh  Boyd, 
the  reputed  author  of  “ Junius,”  Sir  William  Chambers,  and 
other  distinguished  characters.  He  gave  occasionally,  though 
rarely,  a dinner  party ; and  on  one  occasion,  when  his  guests 
were  detained  by  a thunder  shower,  he  got  up  a dance  and  car- 
ried the  merriment  late  into  the  night. 

As  usual,  he  was  the  promoter  of  hilarity  among  the  young, 
and  at  one  time  took  the  children  of  the  house  to  see  a com- 
pany of  strolling  players  at  Hendon.  The  greatest  amusement 
to  the  party,  however,  was  derived  from  his  own  jokes  on  the 
road  and  his  comments  on  the  performance,  which  produced 
infinite  laughter  among  his  youthful  companions. 

Near  to  his  rural  retreat  at  Edge  ware,  a Mr.  Seguin,  an 
Irish  merchant,  of  literary  tastes,  had  country  quarters  for  his 
family,  where  Goldsmith  was  always  welcome. 

In  this  family  he  would  indulge  in  playful  and  even  grotesque 
humor,  and  was  ready  for  anything— conversation,  music,  or  a 
game  of  romps.  He  prided  himself  upon  his  dancing,  and 
would  walk  a minuet  with  Mrs.  Seguin,  to  the  infinite  amuse- 
ment of  herself  and  the  children,  whose  shouts  of  laughter  he 
bore  with  perfect  good-humor.  He  would  sing  Irish  songs,  and 
the  Scotch  ballads  of  Johnny  Armstrong.  He  took  the  lead  in 
the  children’s  sports  of  blind-man’s  buff,  hunt  the  slipper,  etc., 
or  in  their  games  at  cards,  and  was  the  most  noisy  of  the  party, 
affecting  to  cheat  and  to  be  excessively  eager  to  win ; while 
with  children  of  smaller  size  he  would  turn  the  hind  part  of  his 
wig  before,  and  play  all  kinds  of  tricks  to  amuse  them. 


196 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH . 


One  word  as  to  his  musical  skill  and  his  performance  on  the 
flute,  which  comes  up  so  invariably  in  all  his  fireside  revels. 
He  really  knew  nothing  of  music  scientifically ; he  had  a good 
ear,  and  may  have  played  sweetly ; but  we  are  told  he  could 
not  read  a note  of  music.  Roubiliac,  the  statuary,  once  played 
a trick  upon  him  in  this  respect.  He  pretended  to  score  down 
an  air  as  the  poet  played  it,  but  put  down  crotchets  and  semi- 
breves at  random.  When  he  had  finished,  Goldsmith  cast  his 
eyes  over  it  and  pronounced  it  correct ! It  is  possible  that  his 
execution  in  music  was  like  his  style  in  writing ; in  sweetness 
and  melody  he  may  have  snatched  a grace  beyond  the  reach  of 
art! 

He  was  at  all  times  a capital  companion  for  children,  and 
knew  how  to  fall  in  with  their  humors.  “I  little  thought,” 
said  Miss  Hawkins,  the  woman  grown,  “ what  I should  have  to 
boast,  when  Goldsmith  taught  me  to  play  Jack  and  Jill  by  two 
bits  of  paper  on  his  fingers.”  He  entertained  Mrs.  Garrick,  we 
are  told,  with  a whole  budget  of  stories  and  songs ; delivered 
the  “ Chimney  Sweep”  with  exquisite  taste  as  a solo;  and  per- 
formed a duet  with  Garrick  of  “Old  Rose  and  Burn  the 
Bellows.” 

“ I was  only  five  years  old,”  says  the  late  George  Colman, 
“ when  Goldsmith  one  evening,  when  drinking  coffee  with  my 
father,  took  me  on  his  knee  and  began  to  play  with  me,  which 
amiable  act  I returned  with  a very  smart  slap  in  the  face ; it 
must  have  been  a tingler,  for  I left  the  marks  of  my  little 
spiteful  paw  upon  his  cheek.  This  infantile  outrage  was  fol- 
lowed by  summary  justice,  and  I was  locked  up  by  my  father 
in  an  adjoining  room,  to  undergo  solitary  imprisonment  in  the 
dark.  Here  I began  to  howl  and  scream  most  abominably. 
At  length  a friend  appeared  to  extricate  me  from  jeopardy;  it 
was  the  good-natured  doctor  himself,  with  a lighted  candle  in 
his  hand,  and  a smile  upon  his  countenance,  which  was  still 
partially  red  from  the  effects  of  my  petulance.  I sulked  and 
sobbed,  and  he  fondled  and  soothed  until  I began  to  brighten. 
He  seized  the  propitious  moment,  placed  three  hats  upon  the 
carpet,  and  a shilling  under  each;  the  shillings,  he  told  me, 
were  England,  France,  and  Spain.  4 Hey,  presto,  cockolorum ! ’ 
cried  the  doctor,  and  lo ! on  uncovering  the  shillings,  they  were 
all  found  congregated  under  one.  I was  no  politician  at  the 
time,  and  therefore  might  not  have  wondered  at  the  sudden 
revolution  which  brought  England,  France,  and  Spain  all  under 
one  crown ; but,  as  I was  also  no  conjurer,  it  amazed  me  be5 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  197 

yond  measure.  From  that  time,  whenever  the  doctor  came  to 
visit  my  father, 

‘I  pluck’d  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man’s  smile;* 

a game  of  romps  constantly  ensued,  and  we  were  always  cor- 
dial friends  and  merry  playfellows.” 

Although  Goldsmith  made  the  Edgeware  farmhouse  his  head- 
quarters for  the  summer,  he  would  absent  himself  for  weeks  at 
a time  on  visits  to  Mr.  Cradock,  Lord  Clare,  and  Mr.  Langton, 
at  their  country-seats.  He  would  often  visit  town,  also,  to 
dine  and  partake  of  the  public  amusements.  On  one  occasion 
he  accompanied  Edmund  Burke  to  witness  a performance  of 
the  Italian  Fantoccini  or  Puppets,  in  Panton  Street ; an  exhibi- 
tion which  had  hit  the  caprice  of  the  town,  and  was  in  great 
vogue.  The  puppets  were  set  in  motion  by  wires,  so  well  con- 
cealed as  to  be  with  difficulty  detected.  Boswell,  with  his 
usual  obtuseness  with  respect  to  Goldsmith,  accuses  him  of  be- 
ing jealous  of  tiie  puppets ! 44  When  Burke,”  said  he,  “praised 

the  dexterity  with  which  one  of  them  tossed  a pike,”  4 Pshaw,’ 
said  Goldsmith  with  some  warmth , 4 1 can  do  it  better  myself.  ’ ” 
“The  same  evening,”  adds  Boswell,  “when  supping  at  Burke’s 
lodgings,  he  broke  his  shin  by  attempting  to  exhibit  to  the 
company  how  much  better  he  could  jump  over  a stick  than  the 
puppets.” 

Goldsmith  jealous  of  puppets ! This  even  passes  in  absurdity 
Boswell’s  charge  upon  him  of  being  jealous  of  the  beauty  of 
the  two  Miss  Hornecks. 

The  Panton  Street  puppets  were  destined  to  be  a source  of 
further  amusement  to  the  town,  and  of  annoyance  to  the  little 
autocrat  of  the  stage.  Foote,  the  Aristophanes  of  the  English 
drama,  who  was  always  on  the  alert  to  turn  every  subject  of 
popular  excitement  to  account,  seeing  the  success  of  the  Fan- 
toccini, gave  out  that  he  should  produce  a Primitive  Puppet- 
show  at  the  Haymarket,  to  be  entitled  The  Handsome  Cham- 
bermaid, or  Piety  in  Pattens : intended  to  burlesque  the  senti- 
mental comedy  which  Garrick  still  maintained  at  Drury  Lane. 
The  idea  of  a play  to  be  performed  in  a regular  theatre  by 
puppets  excited  the  curiosity  and  talk  of  the  town.  4 4 Will 
your  puppets  be  as  large  as  life,  Mr.  Foote?”  demanded  a lady 
of  rank.  44  Oh,  no,  my  lady;”  replied  Foote,  u not  much  larger 
than  Garrick P 


198 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Broken  health— dissipation  and  debts— the  Irish  widow— 

PRACTICAL  JOKES  — SCRUB— A MISQUOTED  PUN— MALAGRIDA— 

GOLDSMITH  PROVED  TO  BE  A FOOL  — DISTRESSED  BALLAD 

SINGERS — THE  POET  AT  RANELAGH. 

Goldsmith  returned  to  town  in  the  autumn  (1772),  with  his 
health  much  disordered.  His  close  fits  of  sedentary  applica- 
tion, during  which  he  in  a manner  tied  himself  to  the  mast, 
had  laid  the  seeds  of  a lurking  malady  in  his  system,  and  pro- 
duced a severe  illness  in  the  course  of  the  summer.  Town  life 
was  not  favorable  to  the  health  either  of  body  or  mind.  He 
could  not  resist  the  siren  voice  of  temptation,  which,  now  that 
he  had  become  a notoriety,  assailed  him  on  every  side.  Ac- 
cordingly we  find  him  launching  away  in  a career  of  social 
dissipation;  dining  and  supping  out;  at  clubs,  at  routs,  at 
theatres;  he  is  a guest  with  Johnson  at  the  Thrales’,  and  an 
object  of  Mrs.  Thrale’s  lively  sallies;  he  is  a lion  at  Mrs.  Vesey’s 
and  Mrs,  Montagu’s,  where  some  of  the  high-bred  blue-stock- 
ings pronounce  him  a “wild  genius, ’’and  others,  peradventure, 
a “wild  Irishman.”  In  the  meantime  his  pecuniary  difficul- 
ties are  increasing  upon  him,  conflicting  with  his  proneness  to 
pleasure  and  expense,  and  contributing  by  the  harassment  of 
his  mind  to  the  wear  and  tear  of  his  constitution.  His  “Ani- 
mated Nature,”  though  not  finished,  has  been  entirely  paid  for, 
and  the  money  spent.  The  money  advanced  by  Garrick  on 
Newbery’s  note  still  hangs  over  him  as  a debt.  The  tale  on 
which  Newbery  had  loaned  from  two  to  three  hundred  pounds 
previous  to  the  excursion  to  Barton  has  proved  a failure.  The 
bookseller  is  urgent  for  the  settlement  of  his  complicated  ac- 
count ; the  perplexed  author  has  nothing  to  offer  him  in  liqui- 
dation but  the  copyright  of  the  comedy  which  he  has  in  his 
portfolio;  “Though  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Frank,”  said  he, 
“there  are  great  doubts  of  its  success.”  The  offer  was  ac- 
cepted, and,  like  bargains  wrung  from  Goldsmith  in  times  of 
emergency,  turned  out  a golden  speculation  to  the  bookseller. 

In  this  way  Goldsmith  went  on  “overrunning  the  consta- 
ble,” as  he  termed  it;  spending  everything  in  advance ; work- 
ing with  an  overtasked  head  and  weary  heart  to  pay  for  past 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


199 


pleasures  and  past  extravagance,  and  at  the  same  time  incur- 
ring new  debts,  to  perpetuate  his  struggles  and  darken  his 
future  prospects.  While  the  excitement  of  society  and  the  ex- 
citement of  composition  conspire  to  keep  up  a feverishness  of 
the  system,  he  has  incurred  an  unfortunate  habit  of  quacking 
himself  with  James’  powders,  a fashionable  panacea  of  the 
day. 

A farce,  produced  this  year  by  Garrick,  and  entitled  The 
Irish  Widow , perpetuates  the  memory  of  practical  jokes 
played  off  a year  or  two  previously  upon  the  alleged  vanity 
of  poor,  simple-hearted  Goldsmith.  He  was  one  evening  at 
the  house  of  his  friend  Burke,  when  he  was  beset  by  a tenth 
muse,  an  Irish  widow  and  authoress,  just  arrived  from  Ire- 
land, full  of  brogue  and  blunders,  and  poetic  fire  and  rantipole 
gentility.  She  was  soliciting  subscriptions  for  her  poems ; and 
assailed  Goldsmith  for  his  patronage;  the  great  Goldsmith — 
her  countryman,  and  of  course  her  friend.  She  overpowered 
him  with  eulogiums  on  his  own  poems,  and  then  read  some 
of  her  own,  with  vehemence  of  tone  and  gesture,  appealing 
continually  to  the  great  Goldsmith  to  know  how  he  relished 
them. 

Poor  Goldsmith  did  all  that  a kind-hearted  and  gallant  gen- 
tleman could  do  in  such  a case ; he  praised  her  poems  as  far  as 
the  stomach  of  his  sense  would  permit : perhaps  a little  fur- 
ther ; he  offered  her  his  subscription,  and  it  was  not  until  she 
had  retired  with  many  parting  compliments  to  the  great  Gold- 
smith, that  he  pronounced  the  poetry  which  had  been  inflicted 
on  him  execrable.  The  whole  scene  had  been  a hoax  got  up 
by  Burke  for  the  amusement  of  his  company,  and  the  Irish 
widow,  so  admirably  performed,  had  been  personated  by  a 
Mrs.  Balfour,  a lady  of  his  connection,  of  great  sprightliness 
and  talent. 

We  see  nothing  in  the  story  to  establish  the  alleged  vanity 
of  Goldsmith,  but  we  think  it  tells  rather  to  the  disadvantage 
of  Burke ; being  unwarrantable  under  their  relations  of  friend- 
iship,  and  a species  of  waggery  quite  beneath  his  genius. 

Croker,  in  his  notes  to  Boswell,  gives  another  of  these  prac- 
tical jokes  perpetrated  by  Burke  at  the  expense  of  Goldsmith’s 
credulity.  It  was  related  to  Croker  by  Colonel  O’Moore,  of 
Cloghan  Castle,  in  Ireland,  who  was  a party  concerned.  The 
colonel  and  Burke,  walking  one  day  through  Leicester  Square 
on  their  way  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds’s,  with  whom  they  were 
JjQ  p]>pryed  GoldsinJt'hj  WilQ  wag  lilcpynga  to  be  a guegt^ 


200 


OLIVER  Q OLD  SMITH. 


standing  and  regarding  a crowd  which  was  staring  and  shout 
ing  at  some  foreign  ladies  in  the  window  of  a hotel.  “ Observe 
Goldsmith, ’’said  Burke  to  O’Moore,  “and  mark  what  passes  be- 
tween us  at  Sir  Joshua’s.”  They  passed  on  and  reached  there 
before  him.  Burke  received  Goldsmith  with  affected  reserve 
and  coldness;  being  pressed  to  explain  the  reason,  “Really,” 
said  he,  “I  am  ashamed  to  keep  company  with  a person  who 
could  act  as  you  have  just  done  in  the  Square.”  Goldsmith 
protested  he  was  ignorant  of  what  was  meant.  “Why,”  said 
Burke,  4 4 did  you  not  exclaim  as  you  were  looking  up  at  those 
women,  what  stupid  beasts  the  crowd  must  be  for  staring 
with  such  admiration  at  those  painted  Jezebels , while  a man  of 
your  talents  passed  by  unnoticed?”  “Surely,  surely,  my  dear 
friend,  ” cried  Goldsmith,  with  alarm,  4 4 surely  I did  not  say 
so?”  44 Nay,”  replied  Burke,  “if  you  had  not  said  so,  how 
should  I have  known  it?”  “That’s  true,”  answered  Gold- 
smith; 44 1 am  very  sorry — it  was  very  foolish:  I do  recollect 
that  something  of  the  kind  passed  through  my  mind , but  I did 
not  think  I had  uttered  it .” 

It  is  proper  to  observe  that  these  jokes  were  played  off 
by  Burke  before  he  had  attained  the  full  eminence  of  his  social 
position,  and  that  he  may  have  felt  privileged  to  take  liberties 
with  Goldsmith  as  his  countryman  and  college  associate.  It  is 
evident,  however,  that  the  peculiarities  of  the  latter,  and  his 
guileless  simplicity,  made  him  a butt  for  the  broad  waggery  of 
some  of  his  associates;  while  others  more  polished,  though 
equally  perfidious,  were  on  the  watch  to  give  currency  to  his 
bulls  and  blunders. 

The  Stratford  jubilee,  in  honor  of  Shakespeare,  where  Bos- 
well had  made  a fool  of  himself,  was  still  in  every  one’s  mind. 
It  was  sportively  suggested  that  a fete  should  be  held  at  Lich- 
field in  honor  of  Johnson  and  Garrick,  and  that  the  Beaux' 
Stratagem  should  be  played  by  the  members  of  the  Literary 
Club.  4 4 Then,”  exclaimed  Goldsmith,  44 1 shall  certainly  play 
Scrub.  I should  like  of  all  things  to  try  my  hand  at  that  char- 
acter.” The  unwary  speech,  which  any  one  else  might  have 
made  without  comment,  has  been  thought  worthy  of  record  as 
whimsically  characteristic.  Beauclerc  was  extremely  apt  to 
circulate  anecdotes  at  his  expense,  founded  perhaps  on  some 
trivial  incident,  but  dressed  up  with  the  embellishments  of  his 
sarcastic  brain.  One  relates  to  a venerable  dish  of  peas,  served 
up  at  Sir  Joshua’s  table,  which  should  have  been  green,  but 
we  any  other  color*  A wag  suggested  to  Goldsmith,  In  a 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH \ 


201 


whisper,  that  they  should  be  sent  to  Hammersmith,  as  that 
was  the  way  to  turn-em-green  (Turnham-Green) . Goldsmith, 
delighted  with  the  pun,  endeavored  to  repeat  it  at  Burke’s 
table,  but  missed  the  point.  “ That  is  the  way  to  make  ’em 
green,”  said  he.  Nobody  laughed.  He  perceived  he  was  at 
fault.  “I  mean  that  is  the  road  to  turn  ’em  green.”  A dead 
pause  and  a stare;  44  whereupon,”  adds  Beauclerc,  44  he  started 
up  disconcerted  and  abruptly  left  the  table.  ” This  is  evidently 
one  of  Beauclerc’s  caricatures. 

On  another  occasion  the  poet  and  Beauclerc  were  seated  at 
the  theatre  next  to  Lord  Shelburne,  the  minister,  whom  politi- 
cal writers  thought  proper  to  nickname  Malagrida.  “Do  you 
know,”  said  Goldsmith  to  his  lordship  in  the  course  of  conver- 
sation, “that  I never  could  conceive  why  they  call  you  Mal- 
agrida, for  Malagrida  was  a very  good  sort  of  man.”  This  was 
too  good  a trip  of  the  tongue  for  Beauclerc  to  let  pass:  he 
serves  it  up  in  his  next  letter  to  Lord  Charlemont,  as  a speci- 
men of  a mode  of  turning  a thought  the  wrong  way,  peculiar 
to  the  poet ; he  makes  merry  over  it  with  his  witty  and  sarcas- 
tic compeer,  Horace  Walpole,  who  pronounces  it  “ a picture  of 
Goldsmith’s  whole  life.”  Dr.  Johnson  alone,  when  he  hears  it 
bandied  about  as  Goldsmith’s  last  blunder,  growls  forth  a 
friendly  defence:  “Sir,”  said  he,  “it  was  a mere  blunder  in 
emphasis.  He  meant  to  say,  I wonder  they  should  use  Mala- 
grida as  a term  of  reproach.”  Poor  Goldsmith!  On  such 
points  he  was  ever  doomed  to  be  misinterpreted.  Rogers,  the 
poet,  meeting  in  times  long  subsequent  with  a survivor  of 
those  days,  asked  him  what  Goldsmith  really  was  in  conversa- 
tion. The  old  conversational  character  was  too  deeply  stamped 
in  the  memory  of  the  veteran  to  be  effaced.  4 4 Sir,  ” replied  the 
old  wiseacre,  4 4 he  was  a fool . The  right  word  never  came  to 
him.  If  you  gave  him  back  a bad  shilling,  he’d  say,  Why  it’s 
as  good  a shilling  as  ever  was  horn . You  know  he  ought  to 
have  said  coined . Coined , sir,  never  entered  his  head.  He  was 
a fool,  sir.” 

We  have  so  many  anecdotes  in  which  Goldsmith’s  simplicity 
is  played  upon,  that  it  is  quite  a treat  to  meet  with  one  in  which 
he  is  represented  playing  upon  the  simplicity  of  others,  espe- 
cially when  the  victim  of  his  joke  is  the  44  Great  Cham”  himself, 
whom  all  others  are  disposed  to  hold  so  much  in  awe.  Gold- 
smith and  Johnson  were  supping  cosily  together  at  a tavern  in 
Dean  Street,  Soho,  kept  by  Jack  Roberts,  a singer  qt  Drury 
Lano*  and  a protege  of  Garrick’^  Johnson  delighted  in  theso 


202 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


gastronomical  tete-a-tetes,  and  was  expatiating  in  high  good 
humor  on  rumps  and  kidneys,  the  veins  of  liis  forehead  swell- 
ing with  the  ardor  of  mastication.  “These,”  said  he,  “are 
pretty  little  things;  but  a man  must  eat  a great  many  of  them 
before  he  is  filled.”  “Aye;  but  how  many  of  them,”  asked 
Goldsmith,  with  affected  simplicity,  “would  reach  to  the 
moon?”  “To  the  moon!  Ah,  sir,  that,  I fear,  exceeds  your 
calculation.”  “Not  at  all,  sir;  I think  I could  tell.”  “Pray 
then,  sir,  let  us  hear.”  “Why,  sir,  one,  if  it  ivere  long 
enough!”  Johnson  growled  for  a time  at  finding  himself 
caught  in  such  a trite  schoolboy  trap.  “Well,  sir,”  cried  he  at 
length,  ‘ 1 I have  deserved  it.  I should  not  have  provoked  so 
foolish  an  answer  by  so  foolish  a question.” 

Among  the  many  incidents  related  as  illustrative  of  Gold- 
smith’s vanity  and  envy  is  one  which  occurred  one  evening 
when  he  was  in  a drawing-room  with  a party  of  ladies,  and  a 
ballad-singer  under  the  window  struck  up  his  favorite  song  of 
“ Sally  Salisbury.”  “ How  miserably  this  woman  sings!”  ex- 
claimed he.  “Pray,  doctor,”  said  the  lady  of  the  house, 
“could  you  do  it  better?”  “Yes,  madam,  and  the  company 
shall  be  judges.”  The  company,  of  course,  prepared  to  be 
entertained  by  an  absurdity ; but  their  smiles  were  well-nigh 
turned  to  tears,  for  he  acquitted  himself  with  a skill  and 
pathos  that  drew  universal  applause.  He  had,  in  fact,  a deli- 
cate ear  for  music,  which  had  been  jarred  by  the  false  notes  of 
the  ballad-singer;  and  there  were  certain  pathetic  ballads, 
associated  with  recollections  of  his  childhood,  which  were  sure 
to  touch  the  springs  of  his  heart.  We  have  another  story  of 
him,  connected  with  ballad-singing,  which  is  still  more  charac- 
teristic. He  was  one  evening  at  the  house  of  Sir  William 
Chambers,  in  Berners  Street,  seated  at  a whist-table  with  Sir 
William,  Lady  Chambers,  and  Baretti,  when  all  at  once  he 
threw  down  his  cards,  hurried  out  of  the  room  and  into  the 
street.  He  returned  in  an  instant,  resumed  his  seat,  and  the 
game  went  on.  Sir  William,  after  a little  hesitation,  ventured 
to  ask  the  cause  of  his  retreat,  fearing  he  had  been  overcome 
by  the  heat  of  the  room.  “Not  at  all,”  replied  Goldsmith; 
‘ ‘ but  in  truth  I could  not  bear  to  hear  that  unfortunate  woman 
in  the  street,  half  singing,  half  sobbing,  for  such  tones  could 
only  arise  from  the  extremity  of  distress;  her  voice  grated 
painfully  on  my  ear  and  jarred  my  frame,  so  that  I could  not 
rest  until  I had  sent  her  away.”  “ It  was  in  fact  a poor  ballad- 
singer,  whose  cracked  voice  had  been  heard  by  others  of  tb§ 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


203 


party,  but  without  having  the  same  effect  on  their  sensibilities. 
It  was  the  reality  of  his  fictitious  scene  in  the  story  of  the 
“ Man  in  Black;”  wherein  he  describes  a woman  in  rags  with 
one  child  in  her  arms  and  another  on  her  back,  attempting  to 
sing  ballads,  but  with  such  a mournful  voice  that  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  determine  whether  she  was  singing  or  crying.  “ A 
wretch,”  he  adds,  “who,  in  the  deepest  distress,  still  aimed  at 
good  humor,  was  an  object  my  friend  was  by  no  means  capable 
of  withstanding.”  The  Man  in  Black  gave  the  poor  woman  all 
that  he  had — a bundle  of  matches.  Goldsmith,  it  is  probable, 
sent  his  ballad-singer  away  rejoicing  with  all  the  money  in  his 
pocket. 

Banelagh  was  at  that  time  greatly  in  vogue  as  a place  of 
public  entertainment.  It  was  situated  near  Chelsea ; the  prin- 
cipal room  was  a rotunda  of  great  dimensions,  with  an  orches- 
tra in  the  centre,  and  tiers  of  boxes  all  round.  It  was  a place 
to  which  Johnson  resorted  occasionally.  “I  am  a great  friend 
to  public  amusements,”  said  he,  “for  they  keep  people  from 
vice.  ” * Goldsmith  was  equally  a friend  to  them,  though  per- 
haps not  altogether  on  such  moral  grounds.  He  was  particu- 
larly fond  of  masquerades,  which  were  then  exceedingly  popu- 
lar, and  got  up  at  Banelagh  with  great  expense  and  magnifi- 
cence. Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  who  had  likewise  a taste  for 
such  amusements,  was  sometimes  his  companion,  at  other 
times  he  went  alone;  his  peculiarities  of  person  and  manner 
would  soon  betray  him,  whatever  might  be  his  disguise,  and 
he  would  be  singled  out  by  wags,  acquainted  with  his  foibles, 
and  more  successful  than  himself  in  maintaining  their  incog- 
nito, as  a capital  subject  to  be  played  upon.  Some,  pretend- 
ing not  to  know  him,  would  decry  his  writings,  and  praise 
those  of  his  contemporaries ; others  would  laud  his  verses  to 
the  skies,  but  purposely  misquote  and  burlesque  them ; others 
would  annoy  him  with  parodies ; while  one  young  lady,  whom 
he  was  teasing,  as  he  supposed,  with  great  success  and  infinite 
humor,  silenced  his  rather  boisterous  laughter  by  quoting  his 
own  line  about  “the  loud  laugh  that  speaks  the  vacant  mind.” 


* “Alas,  sir!”  said  Johnson,  speaking:,  when  in  another  mood,  of  grand  houses, 
fine  gardens,  and  splendid  places  of  public  amusement;  “alas,  sir!  these  are  only 
struggles  for  happiness.  When  I first  entered  Banelagh  it  gave  an  expansion  and 
gay  sensation  to  my  mind,  such  as  I never  experienced  anywhere  else.  But,  as 
Xerxes  wept  when  he  viewed  his  immense  army,  and  considered  that  not  one  of 
that  great  multitude  would  be  alive  a hundred  years  afterward,  so  it  went  to  my 
heart  to  consider  that  there  was  not  one  in  all  that  brilliant  circle  that  was  not  &£r&14 
gQ  koine  think*” 


204 


OLIVER  GOLD  SMITH. 


On  one  occasion  he  was  absolutely  driven  out  of  the  house  by 
the  persevering  jokes  of  a wag,  whose  complete  disguise  gave 
him  no  means  of  retaliation. 

His  name  appearing  in  the  newspapers  among  the  distin- 
guished persons  present  at  one  of  these  amusements,  his  old 
enemy,  Kenrick,  immediately  addressed  to  him  a copy  of 
anonymous  verses,  to  the  following  purport. 

To  Dr.  Goldsmith ; on  seeing  his  name  in  the  list  of  mum- 
mers at  the  late  masquerade : t 

“ How  widely  different,  Goldsmith,  are  the  ways 
Of  Doctors  now,  and  those  of  ancient  daysl 
Theirs  taught  the  truth  in  academic  shades, 

Ours  in  lewd  hops  and  midnight  masquerades. 

So  changed  the  times  1 say,  philosophic  sage, 

Whose  genius  suits  so  well  this  tasteful  age, 

Is  the  Pantheon,  late  a sink  obscene, 

4 Become  the  fountain  of  chaste  Hippocrene? 

Or  do  thy  moral  numbers  quaintly  flow, 

Inspired  by  th’  Aganippe  of  Soho? 

Do  wisdom’s  sons  gorge  cates  and  vermicelli, 

Like  beastly  Bickerstaffe  or  bothering  Kelly? 

Or  art  thou  tired  of  th’  undeserved  applause 
Bestowed  on  bards  affecting  Virtue’s  cause? 

Is  this  the  good  that  makes  the  humble  vain, 

The  good  philosophy  should  not  disdain? 

If  so,  let  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 

A modern  sage  is  still  much  less  than  man.” 

Goldsmith  was  keenly  sensitive  to  attacks  of  the  kind,  and 
meeting  Kenrick  at  the  Chapter  Coffee-house,  called  him  to 
sharp  account  for  taking  such  a liberty  with  his  name,  and 
calling  his  morals  in  question,  merely  on  account  of  his  being 
seen  at  a place  of  general  resort  and  amusement.  Kenrick 
shuffled  and  sneaked,  protesting  that  he  meant  nothing  dero- 
gatory to  his  private  character.  Goldsmith  let  him  know, 
however,  that  he  was  aware  of  his  having  more  than  onee  in- 
dulged in  attacks  of  this  dastard  kind,  and  intimated  that  an- 
other such  outrage  would  be  followed  by  personal  chastise- 
ment. 

Kenrick  having  played  the  craven  in  his  presence,  avenged 
himself  as  soon  as  he  was  gone  by  complaining  of  his  having 
made  a wanton  attack  upon  him,  and  by  making  coarse  com- 
ments upon  his  writings,  conversation,  and  person. 

The  scurrilous  satire  of  Kenrick,  however  unmerited,  may 
have  checked  Goldsmith’s  taste  for  masquerades.  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  calling  on  the  poet  one  morning,  found  him  walking 
about;  bis  room  in  somewhat  of  a reverie,  kicking  a bundle  of 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


205 


clothes  before  him  like  a foot-ball.  It  proved  to  be  an  expen- 
sive masquerade  dress,  which  he  said  he  had  been  fool  enough 
to  purchase,  and  as  there  was  no  other  way  of  getting  the 
worth  of  his  money,  he  was  trying  to  take  it  out  in  exercise. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

INVITATION  TO  CHRISTMAS — THE  SPRING  VELVET  COAT— THE 
HAYMAKING  WIG — THE  MISCHANCES  OF  LOO— THE  FAIR  CUL- 
PRIT—A DANCE  WITH  THE  JESSAMY  BRIDE. 

From  the  feverish  dissipations  of  town,  Goldsmith  is  sum- 
moned away  to  partake  of  the  genial  dissipations  of  the  coun- 
try. In  the  month  of  December,  a letter  from  Mrs.  Bunbury 
invites  him  down  to  Burton,  to  pass  the  Christmas  holidays. 
The  letter  is  written  in  the  usual  playful  vein  which  marks  his 
intercourse  with  this  charming  family.  He  is  to  come  in  his 
“ smart  spring- velvet  coat,”  to  bring  a new  wig  to  dance  with 
the  haymakers  in,  and  above  all,  to  follow  the  advice  of  herself 
and  her  sister  (the  Jessamy  Bride),  in  playing  loo.  This  letter, 
which  plays  so  archly,  yet  kindly,  with  some  of  poor  Gold- 
smith’s peculiarities,  and  bespeaks  such  real  ladylike  regard 
for  him,  requires  a word  or  two  of  annotation.  The  spring- 
velvet  suit  alluded  to  appears  to  have  been  a gallant  adorn- 
ment (somewhat  in  the  style  of  the  famous  bloom-colored  coat) 
in  which  Goldsmith  had  figured  in  the  preceding  month  of 
May — the  season  of  blossoms— for,  on  the  21st  of  that  month, 
we  find  the  following  entry  in  the  chronicle  of  Mr.  William 
Filby,  tailor:  To  your  blue  velvet  suit , £21 105.  9 d.  Also,  about 
the  same  time,  a suit  of  livery  and  a crimson  collar  for  the 
serving  man.  Again  we  hold  the  Jessamy  Bride  responsible 
for  this  gorgeous  splendor  of  wardrobe. 

The  new  wig  no  doubt  is  a bag-wig  and  solitaire,  still  highly 
the  mode,  and  in  which  Goldsmith  is  represented  as  figuring 
when  in  full  dress,  equipped  with  his  sword. 

As  to  the  dancing  with  the  haymakers,  we  presume  it  al- 
ludes to  some  gambol  of  the  poet,  in  the  course  of  his  former 
visit  to  Barton ; when  he  ranged  the  fields  and  lawns  a char- 
tered libertine,  and  tumbled  into  the  fish-ponds. 

As  to  the  suggestions  about  loo,  they  are  in  sportive  allusion 
to  the  doctor’s  mode  of  playing  that  game  in  their  merry 


206 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


evening  parties;  affecting  the  desperate  gambler  and  easy 
dupe ; running  counter  to  all  rule ; making  extravagant  ven- 
tures; reproaching  all  others  with  cowardice;  dashing  at  all 
hazards  at  the  pool,  and  getting  himself  completely  loo’d,  to 
the  great  amusement  of  the  company.  The  drift  of  the  fair 
sisters’  advice  was  most  probably  to  tempt  him  on,  and  then 
leave  him  in  the  lurch. 

With  these  comments  we  subjoin  Goldsmith’s  reply  to  Mrs. 
Bunbury,  a fine  piece  of  off-hand,  humorous  writing,  which 
has  but  in  late  years  been  given  to  the  public,  and  which 
throws  a familiar  light  on  the  social  circle  at  Barton. 

‘ ‘ Madam  : I read  your  letter  with  all  that  allowance  which 
critical  candor  could  require,  but  after  all  find  so  much  to 
object  to,  and  so  much  to  raise  my  indignation,  that  I cannot 
help  giving  it  a serious  answer.  I am  not  so  ignorant, 
madam,  as  not  to  see  there  are  many  sarcasms  contained  in  it, 
and  solecisms  also.  (Solecism  is  a word  that  comes  from  the 
town  of  Soleis  in  Attica,  among  the  Greeks,  built  by  Solon, 
and  applied  as  we  use  the  vrord  Kidderminster  for  curtains 
from  a town  also  of  that  name — but  this  is  learning  you  have 
no  taste  for !) — I say,  madam,  there  are  many  sarcasms  in  it, 
and  solecisms  also.  But  not  to  seem  an  ill-natured  critic,  I’ll 
take  leave  to  quote  your  own  words,  and  give  you  my 
remarks  upon  them  as  they  occur.  You  begin  as  follows; 

‘I  hope,  my  good  Doctor,  you  soon  will  be  here, 

And  your  spring-velvet  coat  very  smart  will  appear, 

To  open  our  ball  the  first  day  of  the  year.’ 

“Pray,  madam,  where  did  you  ever  find  the  epithet  ‘good,’ 
applied  to  the  title  of  doctor?  Had  you  called  me  ‘learned 
doctor,’  or  ‘grave  doctor,’  or  ‘noble  doctor,’  it  might  be 
allowable,  because  they  belong  to  the  profession.  But,  not  to 
cavil  at  trifles,  you  talk  of  ‘my  spring- velvet  coat,’  and  advise 
me  to  wear  it  the  first  day  in  the  year,  that  is,  in  the  middle 
of  winter ! — a spring-velvet  coat  in  the  middle  of  winter ! ! ! 
That  would  be  a solecism  indeed!  and  yet  to  increase  the 
inconsistence,  in  another  part  of  your  letter  you  call  me  a 
beau.  Now,  on  one  side  or  other  you  must  be  wrong.  If  I 
am  a beau,  I can  never  think  of  wearing  a spring-velvet  in 
winter;  and  if  I am  not  a beau,  why  then,  that  explains 
itself.  But  let  me  go  on  to  your  two  next  strange  lines : 

‘ And  bring  with  you  a wig,  that  is  modish  and  gay. 

To  dance  with  the  girls  that  are  makers  of  hay.’ 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


207 


“The  absurdity  of  making  hay  at  Christmas  you  yourself 
seem  sensible  of:  you  say  your  sister  will  laugh;  and  so 
indeed  she  well  may!  The  Latins  have  an  expression  for  a 
contemptuous  kind  of  laughter,  ‘ naso  contemnere  adunco 
that  is,  to  laugh  with  a crooked  nose.  She  may  laugh  at  you 
in  the  manner  of  the  ancients  if  she  thinks  fit.  But  now  I 
come  to  the  most  extraordinary  of  all  extraordinary  proposi- 
tions, which  is,  to  take  your  and  your  sister’s  advice  in 
playing  at  loo.  The  presumption  of  the  offer  raises  my  indig- 
nation beyond  the  hounds  of  prose;  it  inspires  me  at  once 
with  verse  and  resentment.  I take  advice!  and  from  whom? 
You  shall  hear. 

“ First  let  me  suppose,  what  may  shortly  be  true, 

The  company  set,  and  the  word  to  be  Loo: 

All  smirking,  and  pleasant,  and  big  with  adventure, 

And  ogling  the  stake  which  is  fix’d  in  the  centre. 

Round  and  round  go  the  cards,  while  I inwardly  damn 
At  never  once  finding  a visit  from  Pam. 

I lay  down  my  stake,  apparently  cool, 

While  the  harpies  about  me  all  pocket  the  pool. 

I fret  in  my  gizzard,  yet,  cautious  and  sly, 

I wish  all  my  friends  may  be  bolder  than  I: 

Yet  still  they  sit  snug,  not  a creature  will  aim 
By  losing  their  money  to  venture  at  fame. 

’Tis  in  vain  that  at  niggardly  caution  I scold, 

’Tis  in  vain  that  I flatter  the  brave  and  the  bold: 

All  play  their  own  way,  and  they  think  me  an  ass,  . . . 

‘What  does  Mrs.  Bunbury?  ’ . . . ‘I,  sir?  I pass.’ 

‘ Pray  what  does  Miss  Horneck?  take  courage,  come  do,’  . . . 

‘Who,  I?  let  me  see,  sir,  why  I must  pass  too.’ 

Mr.  Bunbury  frets,  and  I fret  like  the  devil, 

To  see  them  so  cowardly,  lucky,  and  civil. 

Yet  still  I sit  snug,  and  continue  to  sigh  on, 

Till,  made  by  my  losses  as  bold  as  a lion, 

I venture  at  all,  while  my  avarice  regards 

The  whole  pool  as  my  own.  . . . ‘ Come  give  me  five  cards.’ 

‘ Well  done!  ’ cry  the  ladies;  ‘ Ah,  Doctor,  that’s  good! 

The  pool’s  very  rich,  ...  ah ! the  Doctor  is  loo’d ! * 

Thus  foil’d  in  my  courage,  on  all  sides  perplext, 

I ask  for  advice  from  the  lady  that’s  next: 

‘ Pray,  ma’am,  be  so  good  as  to  give  your  advice; 

Don’t  you  think  the  best  way  is  to  venture  for’t  twice?  ’ 

‘I  advise,’  cries  the  lady,  ‘ to  try  it,  I own.  . . . 

‘Ah!  the  Doctor  is  loo'd!  Come,  Doctor,  put  down.’ 

Thus,  playing,  and  playing,  I still  grow  more  eager, 

And  so  bold,  and  so  bold,  I’m  at  last  a bold  beggar. 

Now,  ladies,  I ask,  if  law-matters  you’re  skill’d  in, 

Whether  crimes  such  as  yours  should  not  come  before  Fielding: 

For  giving  advice  that  is  not  worth  a straw, 

May  well  be  call’d  picking  of  pockets  in  law; 

And  picking  of  pockets,  with  which  I now  charge  ye, 

Is,  by  quinto  Elizabeth,  Death  without  Clergy. 


208 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


What  justice,  when  both  to  the  Old  Bailey  brought! 

By  the  gods,  I’ll  enjoy  it,  tho’  ’tis  but  in  thought  1 
Both  are  plac’d  at  the  bar,  with  all  proper  decorum, 

With  bunches  of  fennel,  and  nosegays  before  ’em; 

Both  cover  their  faces  with  mobs  and  all  that, 

But  the  judge  bids  them,  angrily,  take  off  their  hat. 

When  uncover’d,  a buzz  of  inquiry  runs  round, 

‘Pray  what  are  their  crimes?  ’ . . . They’ve  been  pilfering  found.1 
‘But,  pray,  who  have  they  pilfer’d?  ’ . . . ‘ A doctor,  I hear.’ 

‘ What , yon  solemn-faced , odd-looking  man  that  stands  near?  ’ 

‘The  same.’  . . . ‘ What  a pity  1 how  does  it  surprise  one, 

> Two  handsomer  culprits  1 never  set  eyes  on!  ’ 

Then  their  friends  all  come  round  me  with  cringing  and  leering, 

To  melt  me  to  pity,  and  soften  my  swearing. 

First  Sir  Charles  advances  with  phrases  well-strung, 

‘Consider,  dear  Doctor,  the  girls  are  but  young.’ 

* The  younger  the  wrose,  ’ I return  him  again, 

‘ It  shows  that  their  habits  are  all  dyed  in  grain.’ 

‘ But  then  they’re  so  handsome,  one’s  bosom  it  grieves.’ 

‘What  signifies  handsome,  when  people  are  thieves?  ’ 

‘But  where  is  your  justice?  their  cases  are  hard.’ 

‘ What  signifies  justice?  I want  the  reward. 

€t  ‘ There’s  the  parish  of  Edmonton  offers  forty  pounds) 
there’s  the  parish  of  St.  Leonard  Shoreditch  offers  forty 
pounds;  there’s  the  parish  of  Tyburn,  from  the  Hog-in-the- 
pound  to  St.  Giles’  watch-house,  offers  forty  pounds — I shall 
have  all  that  if  I convict  them ! ’ — 

“ ‘ But  consider  their  case,  ...  it  may  yet  be  your  own! 

And  see  how  they  kneel ! Is  your  heart  made  of  stone?’ 

This  moves ! . . . so  at  last  I agree  to  relent, 

For  ten  pounds  in  hand,  and  ten  pounds  to  be  spent. 

“I  challenge  you  all  to  answer  this:  I tell  you,  you  cannot. 
It  cuts  deep.  But  now  for  the  rest  of  the  letter : and  next — but 
I want  room— so  I believe  I shall  battle  the  rest  out  at  Barton 
some  day  next  week.  I don’t  value  you  all ! 

“O.  G.” 

We  regret  that  we  have  no  record  of  this  Christmas  visit  to 
Barton ; that  the  poet  had  no  Boswell  to  follow  at  his  heels, 
and  take  note  of  all  his  sayings  and  doings.  We  can  only 
picture  him  in  our  minds,  casting  off  all  care ; enacting  the  lord 
of  misrule;  presiding  at  the  Christmas  revels;  providing  all 
kinds  of  merriment ; keeping  the  card-table  in  an  uproar,  and 
finally  opening  the  ball  on  the  first  day  of  the  year  in  his 
spring-velvet  suit,  with  the  Jessamy  Bride  for  a partner. 


i 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


209 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

BTEATRICAL  DELAYS — NEGOTIATIONS  WITH  COLMAN — LETTER  TC 
GARRICK — CROAKING  OF  THE  MANAGER— NAMING  OF  THE  PLAY 
— SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER— FOOTE’S  PRIMITIVE  PUPPET-SHOW, 
PIETY  ON  PATTENS— FIRST  PERFORMANCE  OF  THE  COMEDY — 
AGITATION  OF  THE  AUTHOR— SUCCESS— COLMAN  SQUIBBED  OUT 
OF  TOWN. 

The  gay  life  depicted  in  the  two  last  chapters,  while  it  kept 
Goldsmith  in  a state  of  continual  excitement,  aggravated  the 
malady  which  was  impairing  his  constitution ; yet  his  increas- 
ing perplexities  in  money  matters  drove  him  to  the  dissipation 
of  society  as  a relief  from  solitary  care.  The  delays  of  the 
theatre  added  to  those  perplexities.  He  had  long  since  finished 
his  new  comedy,  yet  the  year  1772  passed  away  without  his 
being  able  to  get  it  on  the  stage.  No  one,  uninitiated  in  the 
interior  of  a theatre,  that  little  world  of  traps  and  trickery, 
can  have  any  idea  of  the  obstacles  and  perplexities  multiplied 
in  the  way  of  the  most  eminent  and  successful  author  by  the 
mismanagement  of  managers,  the  jealousies  and  intrigues  of 
rival  authors,  and  the  fantastic  and  impertinent  caprices  of 
actors.  A long  and  baffling  negotiation  was  carried  on  between 
Goldsmith  and  Colman,  the  manager  of  Covent  Garden ; who 
retained  the  play  in  his  hands  until  the  middle  of  January 
(1773),  without  coming  to  a decision.  The  theatrical  season 
was  rapidly  passing  away,  and  Goldsmith’s  pecuniary  difficul- 
ties were  augmenting  and  pressing  on  him.  We  may  judge  of 
his  anxiety  by  the  following  letter: 

“ To  George  Colman , Esq. 

‘ 4 Dear  Sir  : I entreat  you’ll  relieve  me  from  that  state  of 
suspense  in  which  I have  been  kept  for  a long  time.  Whatever 
objections  you  have  made  or  shall  make  to  my  play,  I will  en- 
deavor to  remove  and  not  argue  about  them.  To  bring  in  any 
new  judges  either  of  its  merits  or  faults  I can  never  submit  to. 
Upon  a former  occasion,  when  my  other  play  was  before  Mr. 
Garrick,  he  offered  to  bring  me  before  Mr.  Whitehead’s  tribu- 
nal, but  I refused  the  proposal  with  indignation : I hope  I shall 
not  experience  as  harsh  treatment  from  you  as  from  him.  I 


210 


OLIVER  GOLD  SMITH 


have,  as  you  know,  a large  sum  of  money  to  make  up  shortly ; 
by  accepting  my  play,  I can  readily  satisfy  my  creditor  that 
way ; at  any  rate,  I must  look  about  to  some  certainty  to  be 
prepared.  For  God’s  sake  take  the  play,  and  let  us  make  the 
best  of  it,  and  let  me  have  the  same  measure,  at  least,  which 
you  have  given  as  bad  plays  as  mine. 

4 4 1 am  your  friend  and  servant, 

“ Oliver  Goldsmith.” 

Colman  returned  the  manuscript  with  the  blank  sides  of  the 
leaves  scored  with  disparaging  comments  and  suggested  alter- 
ations, but  with  the  intimation  that  the  faith  of  the  theatre 
should  be  kept,  and  the  play  acted  notwithstanding.  Gold- 
smith submitted  the  criticisms  to  some  of  his  friends,  who  pro- 
nounced them  trivial,  unfair,  and  contemptible,  and  intimated 
that  Colman,  being  a dramatic  writer  himself,  might  be  actu- 
ated by  jealousy.  The  play  was  then  sent,  with  Colman’s 
comments  written  on  it,  to  Garrick ; but  he  had  scarce  sent  it 
when  Johnson  interfered,  represented  the  evil  that  might  result 
from  an  apparent  rejection  of  it  by  Covent  Garden,  and  under- 
took to  go  forthwith  to  Colman,  and  have  a talk  with  him  on 
the  subject.  Goldsmith,  therefore,  penned  the  following  note 
to  Garrick : 

4 4 Dear  Sir  : I ask  many  pardons  for  the  trouble  I gave  you 
yesterday.  Upon  more  mature  deliberation,  and  the  advice  of 
a sensible  friend,  I began  to  think  it  indelicate  in  me  to  throw 
upon  you  the  odium  of  confirming  Mr.  Colman’s  sentence.  I 
therefore  request  you  will  send  my  play  back  by  my  servant ; 
for  having  been  assured  of  having  it  acted  at  the  other  house, 
though  I confess  yours  in  every  respect  more  to  my  wish,  yet 
it  would  be  folly  in  me  to  forego  an  advantage  which  lies  in 
my  power  of  appealing  from  Mr.  Colman’s  opinion  to  the 
judgment  of  the  town.  I entreat,  if  not  too  late,  you  will  keep 
this  affair  a secret  for  some  time. 

4 4 1 am,  dear  sir,  your  very  humble  servant, 

44  Oliver  Goldsmith.” 

The  negotiation  of  Johnson  with  the  manager  of  Co  vent 
Garden  was  effective.  4 4 Colman,”  he  says,  4 4 was  prevailed  on 
at  last,  by  much  solicitation,  nay,  a kind  of  force,”  to  bring 
forward  the  comedy.  Still  the  manager  was  ungenerous ; or, 
at  least,  indiscreet  enough  to  express  his  opinion,  that  it  would 
not  reach  a second  representation.  The  plot,  he  said,  was  bad, 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


211 


and  the  interest  not  sustained;  “it  dwindled,  and  dwindled, 
and  at  last  went  ©ut  like  the  snuff  of  a candle.”  The  effect  of 
his  croaking  was  soon  apparent  within  the  wails  of  the  theatre. 
Two  of  the  most  popular  actors,  Woodward  and  Gentleman 
Smith,  to  whom  the  parts  of  Tony  Lumpkin  and  Young  Mar- 
low were  assigned,  refused  to  act  them ; one  of  them  alleging, 
in  excuse,  the  evil  predictions  of  the  manager.  Goldsmith  was 
advised  to  postpone  the  performance  of  his  play  until  he  could 
get  these  important  parts  well  supplied.  “No,”  said  he,  “I 
would  sooner  that  my  play  were  damned  by  bad  players  than 
merely  saved  by  good  acting.” 

Quick  was  substituted  for  Woodward  in  Tony  Lumpkin,  and 
Lee  Lewis,  the  harlequin  of  the  theatre,  for  Gentleman  Smith 
in  Young  Marlow;  and  both  did  justice  to  their  parts. 

Great  interest  was  taken  by  Goldsmith’s  friends  in  the  suc- 
cess of  his  piece.  The  rehearsals  were  attended  by  Johnson, 
Cradock,  Murphy,  Reynolds  and  his  sister,  and  the  whole  Hor- 
neck  connection,  including,  of  course,  the  Jessamy  Bride , 
whose  presence  may  have  contributed  to  flutter  the  anxious 
heart  of  the  author.  The  rehearsals  went  off  with  great  ap- 
plause, but  that  Colman  attributed  to  the  partiality  of  friends. 
He  continued  to  croak,  and  refused  to  risk  any  expense  in  new 
scenery  or  dresses  on  a play  which  he  was  sure  would  prove  a 
failure. 

The  time  was  at  hand  for  the  first  representation,  and  as  yet 
the  comedy  was  without  a title.  “We  are  all  in  labor  for  a 
name  for  Goldy’s  play,”  said  Johnson,  who,  as  usual,  took  a 
kind  of  fatherly  protecting  interest  in  poor  Goldsmith’s  affairs. 
The  Old  House  a New  Inn  was  thought  of  for  a time,  but  still 
did  not  please.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  proposed  The  Belle's 
Stratagem , an  elegant  title,  but  not  considered  applicable,  the 
perplexities  of  the  comedy  being  produced  by  the  mistake  of 
the  hero,  not  the  stratagem  of  the  heroine.  The  name  was 
afterward  adopted  by  Mrs.  Cowley  for  one  of  her  comedies. 
The  Mistakes  of  a Night  was  the  title  at  length  fixed  upon,  to 
which  Goldsmith  prefixed  the  words  She  Stoops  to  Conquer. 

The  evil  bodings  of  Colman  still  continued ; they  were  even 
communicated  in  the  box  office  to  the  servant  of  the  Duke  of 
Gloucester,  who  was  sent  to  engage  a box.  Never  did  the  play 
of  a popular  writer  struggle  into  existence  through  more  diffi- 
culties. 

In  the  meantime  Foote’s  Primitive  Puppetshow,  entitled  the 
Handsome  Housemaid , or  Piety  on  Pattens , had  been  brought 


212 


OLIVER  G0LDSM1TU. 


out  at  the  Haymarket  on  the  15tli  of  February.  All  the  world, 
fashionable  and  unfashionable,  had  crowded  to  the  theatre. 
The  street  was  thronged  with  equipages  — the  doors  were 
stormed  by  the  mob.  The  burlesque  was  completely  success- 
ful, and  sentimental  comedy  received  its  quietus.  Even  Gar- 
rick, who  had  recently  befriended  it,  now  gave  it  a kick,  as  he 
saw  it  going  down  hill,  and  sent  Goldsmith’s  humorous  pro- 
logue to  help  his  comedy  of  the  opposite  school.  Garrick  and 
Goldsmith,  however,  were  now  on  very  cordial  terms,  to  which 
the  social  meetings  in  the  circle  of  the  Hornecks  and  Bunburys 
may  have  contributed. 

On  the  15th  of  March  the  new  comedy  was  to  be  performed. 
Those  who  had  stood  up  for  its  merits,  and  been  irritated  and 
disgusted  by  the  treatment  it  had  received  from  the  manager, 
determined  to  muster  their  forces,  and  aid  in  giving  it  a good 
launch  upon  the  town.  The  particulars  of  this  confederation, 
and  its  triumphant  success,  are  amusingly  told  by  Cumberland 
in  his  memoirs. 

“We  were  not  over  sanguine  of  success,  but  perfectly  de- 
termined to  struggle  hard  for  our  author.  We  accordingly 
assembled  our  strength  at  the  Shakespeare  tavern,  in  a con- 
siderable body,  for  an  early  dinner,  where  Samuel  Johnson 
took  the  chair  at  the  head  of  a long  table,  and  was  the  life  and 
soul  of  the  corps : the  poet  took  post  silently  by  his  side,  with 
the  Burkes,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Fitzherbert,  Caleb  White- 
foord,  and  a phalanx  of  North  British,  predetermined  applaud- 
ers,  under  the  banner  of  Major  Mills,  all  good  men  and  true. 
Our  illustrious  president  was  in  inimitable  glee;  and  poor 
Goldsmith  that  day  took  all  his  raillery  as  patiently  and  com- 
placently as  my  friend  Boswell  would  have  done  any  day  or 
every  day  of  his  life.  In  the  meantime,  we  did  not  forget  our 
duty;  and  though  we  had  a better  comedy  going,  in  which 
Johnson  was  chief  actor,  we  betook  ourselves  in  good  time  to 
our  separate  and  allotted  posts,  and  waited  the  awful  drawing 
up  of  the  curtain.  As  our  stations  were  preconcerted,  so  were 
our  signals  for  plaudits  arranged  and  determined  upon  in  a 
manner  that  gave  every  one  his  cue  where  to  look  for  them, 
and  how  to  follow  them  up. 

“We  had  among  us  a very  worthy  and  efficient  member, 
long  since  lost  to  his  friends  and  the  world  at  large,  Adam 
Drummond,  of  amiable  memory,  who  was  gifted  by  nature 
with  the  most  sonorous,  and  at  the  same  time,  the  most  con- 
tagious laugh  that  ever  echoed  from  the  human  lungs.  The 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


213 


neighing  of  the  horse  of  the  son  of  Hystaspes  was  a whisper  to 
it ; the  whole  thunder  of  the  theatre  could  not  drown  it.  This 
kind  and  ingenious  friend  fairly  forewarned  us  that  he  knew 
no  more  when  to  give  his  fire  than  the  cannon  did  that  was 
planted  on  a battery.  He  desired,  therefore,  to  have  a flapper 
at  his  elbow,  and  I had  the  honor  to  be  deputed  to  that  office. 
I planted  him  in  an  upper  box,  pretty  nearly  over  the  stage,  in 
full  view  of  the  pit  and  galleries,  and  perfectly  well  situated  to 
give  the  echo  all  its  play  through  the  hollows  and  recesses  of 
the  theatre.  The  success  of  our  manoeuvre  was  complete. 
All  eyes  were  upon  Johnson,  who  sat  in  a front  row  of  a side 
box;  and  when  he  laughed,  everybody  thought  themselves 
warranted  to  roar.  In  the  meantime,  my  friend  followed 
signals  with  a rattle  so  irresistibly  comic  that,  when  he  had 
repeated  it  several  times,  the  attention  of  the  spectators  was  so 
engrossed  by  his  person  and  performances,  that  the  progress 
of  the  play  seemed  likely  to  become  a secondary  object,  and  I 
found  it  prudent  to  insinuate  to  him  that  he  might  halt  his 
music  without  any  prejudice  to  the  author ; but  alas ! it  was 
now  too  late  to  rein  him  in ; he  had  laughed  upon  my  signal 
where  he  found  no  joke,  and  now,  unluckily,  he  fancied  that 
he  found  a joke  in  almost  everything  that  was  said;  so  that 
nothing  in  nature  could  be  more  mal-apropos  than  some  of 
his  bursts  every  now  and  then  were.  These  were  dangerous 
moments,  for  the  pit  began  to  take  umbrage ; but  we  carried 
our  point  through,  and  triumphed  not  only  over  Colman’s 
judgment,  but  our  own.” 

Much  of  this  statement  has  been  condemned  as  exaggerated 
or  discolored.  Cumberland’s  memoirs  have  generally  been 
characterized  as  partaking  of  romance,  and  in  the  present  in- 
stance he  had  particular  motives  for  tampering  with  the  truth. 
He  was  a dramatic  writer  himself,  jealous  of  the  success  of  a 
rival,  and  anxious  to  have  it  attributed  to  the  private  manage- 
ment of  friends.  According  to  various  accounts,  public  and 
private,  such  management  was  unnecessary,  for  the  piece  was 
“received  throughout  with  the  greatest  acclamations.” 

Goldsmith  in  the  present  instance,  had  not  dared,  as  on  a 
former  occasion,  to  be  present  at  the  first  performance.  He 
had  been  so  overcome  by  his  apprehensions  that,  at  the  pre- 
paratory dinner  he  could  hardly  utter  a word,  and  was  so 
choked  that  he  could  not  swallow  a mouthful.  When  his 
friends  trooped  to  the  theatre,  he  stole  away  to  St.  James’ 
Park : there  he  was  found  by  a friend  between  seven  and  eight 


214 


OLIVER  GOLD  SMITH. 


o’clock,  wandering  up  and  down  the  Mall  like  a troubled  spirit. 
With  difficulty  he  was  persuaded  to  go  to  the  theatre,  where 
his  presence  might  be  important  should  any  alteration  be 
necessary,  lie  arrived  at  the  opening  of  the  fifth  act,  and 
made  his  way  behind  the  scenes.  Just  as  he  entered  there  was 
a slight  hiss  at  the  improbability  of  Tony  Lumpkin’s  trick  on 
his  mother,  in  persuading  her  she  was  forty  miles  off,  on  Crack- 
skull  Common,  though  she  had  been  trundled  about  on  her 
own  grounds.  “Whats  that?  what’s  that!”  cried  Goldsmith 
to  the  manager,  in  great  agitation.  ‘ ‘ Pshaw ! Doctor,  ” replied 
Column,  sarcastically,  ‘ 1 don’t  be  frightened  at  a squib,  when 
we’ve  been  sitting  these  two  hours  on  a barrel  of  gunpowder  !’s 
Though  of  a most  forgiving  nature  Goldsmith  did  not  easily 
forget  this  ungracious  and  ill-timed  sally. 

If  Colman  was  indeed  actuated  by  the  paltry  motives  as- 
cribed to  him  in  his  treatment  of  this  play,  he  was  most  am- 
ply punished  by  its  success,  and  by  the  taunts,  epigrams,  and 
censures  levelled  at  him  through  the  press,  in  which  his  false 
prophecies  were  jeered  at ; his  critical  judgment  called  in  ques- 
tion ; and  he  was  openly  taxed  with  literary  jealousy.  So 
galling  and  unremitting  was  the  fire,  that  he  at  length  wrote 
to  Goldsmith  entreating  him  “to  take  him  off  the  rack  of  the 
newspapers;55  in  the  meantime,  to  escape  the  laugh  that  was 
raised  about  him  in  the  theatrical  world  of  London,  he  took 
refuge  in  Bath  during  the  triumphant  career  of  the  comedy. 

The  following  is  one  of  the  many  squibs  which  assailed  the 
ears  of  the  manager  : 

To  George  Colman , Esq. 

ON  THE  SUCCESS  OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH'S  NEW  COMEDY. 

“ Come,  Coley,  doff  those  mourning  weeds, 

Nor  thus  with  jokes  bo  flamm’d; 

Tho’  Goldsmith’s  present  play  succeeds, 

His  next  may  still  be  damm’d. 

v 

As  this  has  ' scaped  without  a fall, 

To  sink  his  next  prepare; 

New  actors  hire  from  Wapping  Wall, 

And  dresses  from  Rag  F air. 

For  scenes  let  tatter’d  blankets  fly, 

The  prologue  Kelly  write; 

Then  swear  again  the  piece  .must  die 
Before  the  author’s  night. 

Should  these  tricks  fail,  the  lucky  elf, 

To  bring  to  lasting  shame, 

E’en  write  the  best  you  can  your  self \ 

And  print  it  in  his  name .” 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


215 


The  solitary  hiss,  which  had  startled  Goldsmith,  was  as- 
cribed by  some  of  the  newspaper  scribblers  to  Cumberland 
himself,  who  was  “manifestly  miserable”  at  the  delight  of  the 
audience,  or  to  Ossian  Macpherson,  who  was  hostile  to  the 
whole  Johnson  clique,  or  to  Goldsmith’s  dramatic  rival,  Kelly. 
The  following  is  one  of  the  epigrams  which  appeared : 

“ At  Dr.  Goldsmith’s  merry  play, 

All  the  spectators  laugh,  they  say: 

The  assertion,  sir,  I must  deny, 

For  Cumberland  and  Kelly  cry. 

Ride,  si  sapis .” 

Another,  addressed  to  Goldsmith,  alludes  to  Kelly’s  early 
apprenticeship  to  stay -making : 

“ If  Kelly  finds  fault  with  the  shape  of  your  muse, 

And  thinks  that  too  loosely  it  plays, 

He  surely,  dear  Doctor,  will  never  refuse 
To  make  it  a new  Pair  of  Stays  /” 

Cradock  had  returned  to  the  country  before  the  production 
of  the  play;  the  following  letter,  written  just  after  the  per- 
formance, gives  an  additional  picture  of  the  thorns  which  be- 
set an  author  in  the  path  of  theatrical  literature : 

‘ ‘ My  dear  Sir  : The  play  has  met  with  a success  much  be- 
yond your  expectations  or  mine.  I thank  you  sincerely  for 
your  epilogue,  which,  however,  could  not  be  used,  but  with 
your  permission  shall  be  printed.  The  story  in  short  is  this. 
Murphy  sent  me  rather  the  outline  of  an  epilogue  than  an 
epilogue,  which  was  to  be  sung  by  Miss  Catley,  and  which  she 
approved ; Mrs.  Bulkley  hearing  this,  insisted  on  throwing  up 
her  part”  (Miss  Hardcastle)  “unless,  according  to  the  custom 
of  the  theatre  she  were  permitted  to  speak  the  epilogue.  In 
this  embarrassment  I thought  of  making  a quarrelling  epilogue 
between  Catley  and  her,  debating  who  should  speak  the 
epilogue ; but  then  Mrs.  Catley  refused  after  I had  taken  the 
trouble  of  drawing  it  out.  I was  then  at  a loss  indeed;  an 
epilogue  was  to  be  made,  and  for  none  but  Mrs.  Bulkley.  I 
made  one,  and  Colman  thought  it  too  bad  to  be  spoken ; I was 
obliged,  therefore,  to  try  a fourth  time,  and  I made  a very 
maw^kish  thing,  as  you’ll  shortly  see.  Such  is  the  history  of 
my  stage  adventures,  and  which  I have  at  last  done  with.  I 
cannot  help  saying  that  I am  very  sick  of  the  stage;  and 
though  I believe  I shall  get  three  tolerable  benefits,  yet  I shall, 
on  the  whole,  be  a loser,  even  in  a pecuniary  light ; my  ease 
and  comfort  I certainly  lost  while  i bj*™*  in  agitation. 


216 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


“I  am,  my  dear  Cradock,  your  obliged  and  obedient  ser- 
vant, 

“Oliver  Goldsmith. 

“P.S.  Present  my  most  humble  respects  to  Mrs.  Cradock.” 

Johnson,  who  had  taken  such  a conspicuous  part  in  promot- 
ing the  interests  of  poor  “ Goldy,”  was  triumphant  at  the  suc- 
cess of  the  piece.  “I  know  of  no  comedy  for  many  years,” 
said  he,  4 4 that  has  so  much  exhilarated  an  audience ; that  has 
answered  so  much  the  great  end  of  comedy— making  an  au-' 
dience  merry.” 

Goldsmith  was  happy,  also,  in  gleaning  applause  from  less 
authoritative  sources.  Northcote,  the  painter,  then  a youth- 
ful pupil  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds;  and  Ralph,  Sir  Joshua’s  con- 
fidential man,  had  taken  their  stations  in  the  gallery  to  lead 
the  applause  in  that  quarter.  Goldsmith  asked  Northcote’s 
opinion  of  the  play.  The  youth  modestly  declared  he  could 
not  presume  to  judge  in  such  matters.  4 4 Did  it  make  you 
laugh?”  44  Oh,  exceedingly!”  4 4 That  is  all  I require,”  replied 
Goldsmith ; and  rewarded  him  for  his  criticism  by  box-tickets 
for  his  first  benefit  night. 

The  comedy  was  immediately  put  to  press,  and  dedicated  to 
Johnson  in  the  following  grateful  and  affectionate  terms: 

4 ‘ In  inscribing  this  slight  performance  to  you,  I do  not  mean 
so  much  to  compliment  you  as  myself.  It  may  do  me  some 
honor  to  inform  the  public,  that  I have  lived  many  years  in 
intimacy  with  you.  It  may  serve  the  interests  of  mankind 
also  to  inform  them  that  the  greatest  wit  may  be  found  in  a 
character,  without  impairing  the  most  unaffected  piety.  ” 

The  copyright  was  transferred  to  Mr.  Newberry,  according 
to  agreement,  whose  profits  on  the  sale  of  the  work  far  ex- 
ceeded the  debts  for  which  the  author  in  his  perplexities  had 
pre-engaged  it.  The  sum  which  accrued  to  Goldsmith  from  his 
benefit  nights  afforded  but  a slight  palliation  of  his  pecuniary 
difficulties.  His  friends,  while  they  exulted  in  his  success, 
little  knew  of  his  continually  increasing  embarrassments,  and 
of  the  anxiety  of  mind  which  kept  tasking  his  pen  while  it  im- 
paired the  ease  and  freedom  of  spirit  necessary  to  felicitous 
composition. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


217 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

A NEWSPAPER  ATTACK — THE  EVANS  AFFRAY— JOHNSON’S  COM- 
MENT. 

The  triumphant  success  of  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  brought 
forth,  of  course,  those  carpings  and  cavillings  of  underling 
scribblers,  which  are  the  thorns  and  briers  in  the  path  of  suc- 
cessful authors. 

Goldsmith,  though  easily  nettled  by  attacks  of  the  kind, 
was  at  present  too  well  satisfied  with  the  reception  of  his 
comedy  to  heed  them;  but  the  following  anonymous  letter, 
which  appeared  in  a public  paper,  was  not  to  be  taken  with 
equal  equanimity: 


“ For  the  London  Packet . 

“TO  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 

“ 1 Tons  vous  noyez  par  vanite . 

“Sir:  The  happy  knack  which  you  have  learned  of  puffing 
your  own  compositions,  provokes  me  to  come  forth.  You 
have  not  been  the  editor  of  newspapers  and  magazines  not  to 
discover  the  trick  of  literary  humbug ; but  the  gauze  is  so  thin 
than  the  very  foolish  part  of  the  world  see  through  it,  and  dis- 
cover the  doctor’s  monkey  face  and  cloven  foot.  Your  poetic 
vanity  is  as  unpardonable  as  your  personal.  Would  man  be- 
lieve it,  and  will  woman  bear  it,  to  be  told  that  for  hours  the 
great  Goldsmith  will  stand  surveying  his  grotesque  orang- 
outang’s figure  in  a pier-glass  ? Was  but  the  lovely  II— k as 
much  enamored,  you  would  not  sigh,  my  gentle  swain,  in 
vain.  But  your  vanity  is  preposterous.  How  will  this  same 
bard  of  Bedlam  ring  the  changes  in  the  praise  of  Goldy! 
But  what  has  he  to  be  either  proud  or  vain  of  ? 4 The  Trav- 

eller ’ is  a flimsy  poem,  built  upon  false  principles — principles 
diametrically  opposite  to  liberty.  What  is  The  Good-Natured 
Man  but  a poor,  water-gruel  dramatic  dose  ? What  is  4 The 
Deserted  Village  ’ but  a pretty  poem  of  easy  numbers,  without 
fancy,  dignity,  genius,  or  fire  ? And,  pray,  what  may  be  the 
last  speaking  pantomime , so  praised  by  the  doctor  himself,  but 
an  incoherent  piece  of  stuff,  the  figure  of  a woman  with  a fish’s 


218 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


tail,  without  plot,  incident,  or  intrigue?  We  are  made  to 
laugh  at  stale,  dull  jokes,  wherein  we  mistake  pleasantry  for 
wit,  and  grimace  for  humor ; wherein  every  scene  is  unnatural 
and  inconsistent  with  the  rules,  the  laws  of  nature  and  of  the 
drama;  viz.,  two  gentlemen  come  to  a man  of  fortune’s  house, 
eat,  drink,  etc.,  and  take  it  for  an  inn.  The  one  is  intended 
as  a lover  for  the  daughter ; he  talks  with  her  for  some  hours ; 
and,  when  he  sees  her  again  in  a different  dress,  he  treats  her 
as  a bar-girl,  and  swears  she  squinted.  lie  abuses  the  master 
of  the  house,  and  threatens  to  kick  him  out  of  his  own  doors. 
The  squire,  whom  we  are  told  is  to  be  a fool,  proves  to  be  the 
most  sensible  being  of  the  piece ; and  he  makes  out  a whole  act 
by  bidding  his  mother  lie  close  behind  a bush,  persuading  her 
that  his  father,  her  own  husband,  is  a highwayman,  and  that 
he  has  come  to  cut  their  throats,  and,  to  give  his  cousin  an 
opportunity  to  go  off,  he  drives  his  mother  over  hedges, 
ditches,  and  through  ponds.  There  is  not,  sweet,  sucking 
Johnson,  a natural  stroke  in  the  whole  play  but  the  young 
fellow’s  giving  the  stolen  jewels  to  the  mother,  supposing  her 
to  be  the  landlady.  That  Mr.  Colman  did  no  justice  to  this 
piece,  I honestly  allow ; that  he  told  all  his  friends  it  would  be 
damned,  I positively  aver ; and,  from  such  ungenerous  insinu- 
ations, without  a dramatic  merit,  it  rose  to  public  notice,  and 
it  is  now  the  ton  to  go  and  see  it,  though  I never  saw  a person 
that  either  liked  it  or  approved  it,  any  more  than  the  absurd 
plot  of  Home’s  tragedy  of  Alonzo.  Mr.  Goldsmith,  correct 
your  arrogance,  reduce  your  vanity,  and  endeavor  to  believe, 
as  a man,  you  are  of  the  plainest  sort ; and  as  an  author,  but  a 
mortal  piece  of  mediocrity. 

4i  Brise  le  miroir  infidele 
Qui  vous  cache  la  verity. 

“ Tom  Tickle.” 

It  would  be  difficult  to  devise  a letter  more  calculated  to 
wound  the  peculiar  sensibilities  of  Goldsmith.  The  attacks 
upon  him  as  an  author,  though  annoying  enough,  he  could 
have  tolerated;  but  then  the  allusion  to  his  “ grotesque”  per- 
son, to  his  studious  attempts  to  adorn  it ; and  above  all,  to  his 
being  an  unsuccessful  admirer  of  the  lovely  H — k (the  Jessamy 
Bride),  struck  rudely  upon  the  most  sensitive  part  of  his 
highly  sensitive  nature.  The  paragraph,  it  was  said,  was 
first  pointed  out  to  him  by  an  officious  friend,  an  Irishman, 
who  told  him  he  was  bound  in  honor  to  resent  it;  but  he 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


219 


needed  no  such  prompting.  He  was  in  a high  state  of  excite- 
ment and  indignation,  and  accompanied  by  his  friend,  who  is 
said  to  have  been  a Captain  Higgins,  of  the  marines,  he  re- 
paired to  Paternoster  Row,  to  the  shop  of  Evans,  the  pub- 
lisher, whom  he  supposed  to  be  the  editor  of  the  paper.  Evans 
was  summoned  by  his  shopman  from  an  adjoining  room. 
Goldsmith  announced  his  name.  “I  have  called,”  added  he, 
“ in  consequence  of  a scurrilous  attack  made  upon  me,  and  an 
unwarrantable  liberty  taken  with  the  name  of  a young  lady. 
As  for  myself,  I care  little ; but  her  name  must  not  be  sported 
with.” 

Evans  professed  utter  ignorance  of  the  matter,  and  said  he 
would  speak  to  the  editor.  He  stooped  to  examine  a file  of 
the  paper,  in  search  of  the  offensive  article;  whereupon  Gold- 
smith’s friend  gave  him  a signal,  that  now  was  a favorable 
moment  for  the  exercise  of  his  cane.  The  hint  was  taken  as 
quick  as  given,  and  the  cane  was  vigorously  applied  to  the 
back  of  the  stooping  publisher.  The  latter  rallied  in  an  in- 
stant, and,  being  a stout,  high-blooded  Welshman,  returned 
the  blows  with  interest.  A lamp  hanging  overhead  was 
broken,  and  sent  down  a shower  of  oil  upon  the  combatants; 
but  the  battle  raged  with  unceasing  fury.  The  shopman  ran 
off  for  a constable ; but  Dr.  Kendrick,  who  happened  to  be  in 
the  adjacent  room,  sallied  forth,  interfered  between  the  com- 
batants, and  put  an  end  to  the  affray.  He  conducted  Gold- 
smith to  a coach,  in  exceedingly  battered  and  tattered  plight, 
and  accompanied  him  home,  soothing  him  with  much  mock 
commiseration,  though  he  was  generally  suspected,  and  on 
good  grounds,  to  be  the  author  of  the  libel. 

Evans  immediately  instituted  a suit  against  Goldsmith  for 
an  assault,  but  was  ultimately  prevailed  upon  to  compromise 
the  matter,  the  poet  contributing  fifty  pounds  to  the  Welsh 
charity. 

Newspapers  made  themselves,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  ex- 
ceedingly merry  with  the  combat.  Some  censured  him  severely 
for  invading  the  sanctity  of  a man’s  own  house ; others  accused 
him  of  having,  in  his  former  capacity  of  editor  of  a maga- 
zine, been  guilty  of  the  very  offences  that  he  now  resented  in 
others.  This  drew  from  him  the  following  vindication : 

“ To  the  Public . 

“Lest  it  should  be  supposed  that  I have  been  willing  to 
correct  in  others  an  abuse  of  which  I have  been  guilty  myself, 


220 


OLIVER  O OLD  SMITH. 


I beg  leave  to  declare,  that,  in  all  my  life,  I never  wrote  oi 
dictated  a single  paragraph,  letter,  or  essay  in  a newspaper, 
except  a few  moral  essays  under  the  character  of  a Chinese, 
about  ten  years  ago,  in  the  Ledger , and  a letter,  to  which  I 
signed  my  name  in  the  St.  James ’ Chronicle.  If  the  liberty  of 
the  press,  therefore,  has  been  abused,  I have  had  no  hand  in  it. 

4 4 I have  always  considered  the  press  as  the  protector  of  our 
freedom,  as  a watchful  guardian,  capable  of  uniting  the  weak 
against  the  encroachments  of  power.  What  concerns  the  pub- 
lic most  properly  admits  of  a public  discussion.  But,  of  late, 
the  press  has  turned  from  defending  public  interest  to  making 
inroads  upon  private  life ; from  combating  the  strong  to  over- 
whelming the  feeble.  No  condition  is  now  too  obscure  for  its 
abuse,  and  the  protector  has  become  the  tyrant  of  the  people. 
In  this  manner  the  freedom  of  the  press  is  beginning  to  sow 
the  seeds  of  its  own  dissolution ; the  great  must  oppose  it  from 
principle,  and  the  weak  from  fear ; till  at  last  every  rank  of 
mankind  shall  be  found  to  give  up  its  benefits,  content  with 
security  from  insults. 

4 4 How  to  put  a stop  to  this  licentiousness,  by  which  all  are 
indiscriminately  abused,  and  by  which  vice  consequently  es- 
capes in  the  general  censure,  I am  unable  to  tell ; all  I could 
wish  is  that,  as  the  law  gives  us  no  protection  against  the 
injury,  so  it  should  give  caluminators  no  shelter  after  having 
provoked  correction.  The  insults  which  we  receive  before  the 
public,  by  being  more  open,  are  the  more  distressing;  by 
treating  them  with  silent  contempt  we  do  not  pay  a sufficient 
deference  to  the  opinion  of  the  world.  By  recurring  to  legal 
redress  we  too  often  expose  the  weakness  of  the  law,  which 
only  serves  to  increase  our  mortification  by  failing  to  relieve 
us.  In  short,  every  man  should  singly  consider  himself  as  the 
guardian  of  the  liberty  of  the  press,  and,  as  far  as  his  influence 
can  extend,  should  endeavor  to  prevent  its  licentiousness  be- 
coming at  last  the  grave  of  its  freedom. 

44  Oliver  Goldsmith.” 

Boswell,  who  had  just  arrived  in  town,  met  with  this  article 
in  a newspaper  which  he  found  at  Dr.  Johnson’s.  The  doctor 
was  from  home  at  the  time,  and  Bozzy  and  Mrs.  Williams,  in 
a critical  conference  over  the  letter,  determined  from  the  style 
that  it  must  have  been  written  by  the  lexicographer  himself. 
The  latter  on  his  return  soon  undeceived  them.  4 4 Sir,  ” said  he 
to  Boswell,  “ Goldsmith  would  no  more  have  asked  me  to  have 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


221 


wrote  such  a thing  as  that  for  him,  than  he  would  have  asked 
me  to  feed  him  with  a spoon,  or  do  anything  else  that  denoted 
his  imbecility.  Sir,  had  he  shown  it  to  any  one  friend,  he 
would  not  have  been  allowed  to  publish  it.  He  has,  indeed, 
done  it  very  well;  but  it  is  a foolish  thing  well  done.  I sup- 
pose he  has  been  so  much  elated  with  the  success  of  his  new 
comedy,  that  he  has  thought  everything  that  concerned  him 
must  be  of  importance  to  the  public.” 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

BOSWELL  IN  HOLY  WEEK— DINNER  AT  OGLETHORPE’S— DINNER 
AT  PAOLl’S— THE  POLICY  OF  TRUTH— GOLDSMITH  AFFECTS  IN- 
DEPENDENCE OF  ROYALTY— PAOLl’S  COMPLIMENT — JOHNSON’S 
EULOGIUM  ON  THE  FIDDLE— QUESTION  ABOUT  SUICIDE — BOS- 
WELL’S SUBSERVIENCY. 

The  return  of  Boswell  to  town  to  his  task  of  noting  down 
the  conversations  of  Johnson  enables  us  to  glean  from  his 
journal  some  scanty  notices  of  Goldsmith.  It  was  now  Holy 
Week,  a time  during  which  Johnson  was  particularly  solemn 
in  his  manner  and  strict  in  his  devotions.  Boswell,  who  was 
the  imitator  of  the  great  moralist  in  everything,  assumed,  of 
course,  an  extra  devoutness  on  the  present  occasion.  “He  had 
an  odd  mock  solemnity  of  tone  and  manner,”  said  Miss  Burney 
(afterward  Madame  D’Arblay),  “which  he  had  acquired  from 
constantly  thinking  and  imitating  Dr.  J ohnson.  ’ ’ It  would  seem 
that  he  undertook  to  deal  out  some  second-hand  homilies,  a la 
Johnson , for  the  edification  of  Goldsmith  during  Holy  Week. 
The  poet,  whatever  might  be  his  religious  feeling,  had  no  dis- 
position to  be  schooled  by  so  shallow  an  apostle.  “Sir,”  said 
he  in  reply,  “ as  I take  my  shoes  from  the  shoemaker,  and  my 
coat  from  the  tailor,  so  I take  my  religion  from  the  priest.” 
Boswell  treasured  up  the  reply  in  his  memory  or  his  memo- 
randum book.  A few  days  afterward,  the  9th  of  April,  he 
kept  Good  Friday  with  Dr.  Johnson,  in  orthodox  style;  break- 
fasted with  him  on  tea  and  crossbuns ; went  to  church  with 
him  morning  and  evening;  fasted  in  the  interval,  and  read 
with  him  in  the  Greek  Testament : then,  in  the  piety  of  his 
heart,  complained  of  the  sore  rebuff  he  had  met  with  m the 


222 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


course  of  his  religious  exhortations  to  the  poet,  and  lamented 
that  the  latter  should  indulge  in  “this  loose  way  of  talking.” 
“ Sir,”  replied  Johnson,  “Goldsmith  knows  nothing— he  has 
made  up  his  mind  about  nothing.” 

This  reply  seems  to  have  gratified  the  lurking  jealousy  of 
Boswell,  and  he  has  recorded  it  in  his  journal.  Johnson,  how- 
ever, with  respect  to  Goldsmith,  and  indeed  with  respect  to 
everybody  else,  blew  hot  as  well  as  cold,  according  to  the  hu- 
mor he  was  in.  Boswell,  who  was  astonished  and  piqued  at 
the  continually  increasing  celebrity  of  the  poet,  observed  some 
time  after  to  Johnson,  in  a tone  of  surprise,  that  Goldsmith  had 
acquired  more  fame  than  all  the  officers  of  the  last  war  who 
were  not  generals.  “Why,  sir,”  answered  Johnson,  his  old 
feeling  of  good-will  working  uppermost,  “you  will  find  ten 
thousand  fit  to  do  what  they  did,  before  you  find  one  to  do 
what  Goldsmith  has  done.  You  must  consider  that  a thing  is 
valued  according  to  its  rarity.  A pebble  that  paves  the  street 
is  in  itself  more  useful  than  the  diamond  upon  a lady’s  finger.  ” 

On  the  13th  of  April  we  find  Goldsmith  and  Johnson  at  the 
table  of  old  General  Oglethorpe,  discussing  the  question  of  the 
degeneracy  of  the  human  race.  Goldsmith  asserts  the  fact, 
and  attributes  it  to  the  influence  of  luxury.  Johnson  denies 
the  fact;  and  observes  that,  even  admitting  it,  luxury  could 
not  be  the  cause.  It  reached  but  a small  proportion  of 
the  human  race.  Soldiers,  on  sixpence  a day,  could  not  in- 
dulge in  luxuries ; the  poor  and  laboring  classes,  forming  the 
great  mass  of  mankind,  were  out  of  its  sphere.  Wherever  it 
could  reach  them,  it  strengthened  them  and  rendered  them 
prolific.  The  conversation  was  not  of  particular  force  or  point 
as  reported  by  Boswell;  the  dinner  party  was  a very  small 
one,  in  which  there  was  no  provocation  to  intellectual  display. 

After  dinner  they  took  tea  with  the  ladies,  where  we  find 
poor  Goldsmith  happy  and  at  home,  singing  Tony  Lumpkin’s 
song  of  the  “Three  Jolly  Pigeons,”  and  another,  called  the 
“ Humors  of  Ballamaguery,  ” to  a very  pretty  Irish  tune.  It 
was  to  have  been  introduced  in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer , but  was 
left  out,  as  the  actress  who  played  the  heroine  could  not  sing. 

It  was  in  these  genial  moments  that  the  sunshine  of  Gold- 
smith’s nature  would  break  out,  and  he  would  say  and  do  a 
thousand  whimsical  and  agreeable  things  that  made  him  the 
life  of  the  strictly  social  circle.  Johnson,  with  whom  conver- 
sation was  everything,  used  to  judge  Goldsmith  too  much  by 
his  own  colloquial  standard,  and  undervalue  him  for  being  less 


OLIVER  GOLD  SMITH. 


223 


provided  than  himself  with  acquired  facts,  the  ammunition  of 
the  tongue  and  often  the  mere  lumber  of  the  memory ; others, 
however,  valued  him  for  the  native  felicity  of  his  thoughts, 
however  carelessly  expressed,  and  for  certain  good-fellow 
qualities,  less  calculated  to  dazzle  than  to  endear.  “ It  is  amaz- 
ing,” said  Johnson  one  day,  after  he  himself  had  been  talking 
like  an  oracle;  “ it  is  amazing  how  little  Goldsmith  knows;  he 
seldom  comes  where  he  is  not  more  ignorant  than  anyone 
else.”  “Yet,”  replied  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  with  affectionate 
promptness,  “ there  is  no  man  whose  company  is  more  liked” 
Two  or  three  days  after  the  dinner  at  General  Oglethorpe’s, 
Goldsmith  met  Johnson  again  at  the  table  of  General  Paoli, 
the  hero  of  Corsica.  Martinelli,  of  Florence,  author  of  an 
Italian  History  of  England,  was  among  the  guests;  as  was 
Boswell,  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  minutes  of  the  conversa- 
tion which  took  place.  The  question  was  debated  whether 
Martinelli  should  continue  his  history  down  to  that  day.  “To 
be  sure  he  should,”  said  Goldsmith.  “No,  sir;”  cried  Johnson, 
“it  would  give  great  offence.  He  would  have  to  tell  of  almost 
all  the  living  great  what  they  did  not  wish  told.”  Goldsmith. 
— “It  may,  perhaps,  be  necessary  for  a native  to  be  more  cau- 
tious ; but  a foreigner,  who  comes  among  us  without  prejudice, 
may  be  considered  as  holding  the  place  of  a judge,  and  may 
speak  his  mind  freely.”  Johnson. — “Sir,  a foreigner,  when  he 
sends  a work  from  the  press,  ought  to  be  on  his  guard  against 
catching  the  error  and  mistaken  enthusiasm  of  the  people 
among  whom  he  happens  to  be.”  Goldsmith. — “ Sir,  he  wants 
only  to  sell  his  history,  and  to  tell  truth ; one  an  honest,  the 
other  a laudable  motive.”  Johnson. — “Sir,  they  are  both 
laudable  motives.  It  is  laudable  in  a man  to  wish  to  live  bv 
his  labors ; but  he  should  write  so  as  he  may  live  by  them,  not 
so  as  he  may  be  knocked  on  the  head.  I would  advise  him  to 
be  at  Calais  before  he  publishes  his  history  of  the  present  age. 
A foreigner  who  attaches  himself  to  a political  party  in  this 
country  is  in  the  worst  state  that  can  be  imagined ; he  is  looked 
upon  as  a mere  intermeddler.  A native  may  do  it  from  inter- 
est.” Boswell. — “Or  principle.”  Goldsmith. — “There  are 
people  who  tell  a hundred  political  lies  every  day,  and  are  not 
hurt  by  it.  Surely,  then,  one  may  tell  truth  with  perfect 
safety.”  Johnson. — “Why,  sir,  in  the  first  place,  he  who  tells 
a hundred  lies  has  disarmed  the  force  of  his  lies.  But,  besides, 
a man  had  rather  have  a hundred  lies  told  of  him  than  one 
truth  which  he  does  not  wish  to  be  told.”  Goldsmith. — “ For 


224 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, \ 


my  imrt,  Fd  tell  the  truth,  and  shame  the  devil.”  Johnson. — 
“Yes,  sir,  but  the  devil  will  be  angry.  I wish  to  shame  the 
devil  as  much  as  you  do,  but  I should  choose  to  be  out  of  the 
reach  of  his  claws.”  Goldsmith. — “ His  claws  can  do  you  no 
hurt  where  you  have  the  shield  of  truth.  ” 

This  last  reply  was  one  of  Goldsmith’s  lucky  hits,  and  closed 
the  argument  in  his  favor. 

“ We  talked,”  writes  Boswell,  “ of  the  king’s  coming  to  see 
Goldsmith’s  new  play.”  “I  wish  he  would,”  said  Goldsmith, 
adding,  however,  with  an  affected  indifference,  “Not  that  it 
would  do  me  the  least  good.”  “ Well,  then,”  cried  Johnson, 
laughing,  “ let  us  say  it  would  do  him  good.  No,  sir,  this  affec- 
tation will  not  pass ; it  is  mighty  idle.  In  such  a state  as  ours, 
who  would  not  wish  to  please  the  chief  magistrate?” 

“I  do  wish  to  please  him,”  rejoined  Goldsmith.  “ I remem- 
ber a line  in  Dry  den : 

‘And  every  poet  is  the  monarch’s  friend,’ 

it  ought  to  be  reversed.”  “Nay,”  said  Johnson,  “there  are 
finer  lines  in  Dryden  on  this  subject: 

* For  colleges  on  bounteous  kings  depend, 

And  never  rebel  was  to  arts  a friend.’  ” 

General  Paoli  observed  that  “successful  rebels  might  be.” 
“Happy  rebellions,”  interjected  Martinelli.  “We  have  no 
such  phrase,”  cried  Goldsmith.  ‘ ‘ But  have  you  not  the  thing?” 
asked  Paoli.  “Yes,”  replied  Goldsmith,  “all  our  happy  revo- 
lutions. They  have  hurt  our  constitution,  and  will  hurt  it,  till 
we  mend  it  by  another  happy  revolution.”  This  was  a sturdy 
sally  of  Jacobitism  that  quite  surprised  Boswell,  but  must  have 
been  relished  by  Johnson. 

General  Paoli  mentioned  a passage  in  the  play,  which  had 
been  construed  into  a compliment  to  a lady  of  distinction, 
whose  marriage  with  the  Duke  of  Cumberland  had  excited  the 
strong  disapprobation  of  the  king  as  a mesaillance.  Boswell, 
to  draw  Goldsmith  out,  pretended  to  think  the  compliment 
unintentional.  The  poet  smiled  and  hesitated.  The  general 
came  to  his  relief.  “Monsieur  Goldsmith,”  said  he,  “est 
comme  la  mer,  qui  jette  des  perles  et  beaucoup  d’autres  belles 
choses,  sans  s’en  appercevoir”  (Mr.  Goldsmith  is  like  the  sea, 
which  casts  forth  pearls  and  many  other  beautiful  things  with- 
out perceiving  it). 

“Tres-bien  dit,  et  tres-elegamment”  (very  well  said,  and 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  225 

very  elegantly),  exclaimed  Goldsmith;  delighted  with  so  beau- 
tiful a compliment  from  such  a quarter. 

Johnson  spoke  disparagingly  of  the  learning  of  a Mr.  Harris, 
of  Salisbury,  and  doubted  his  being  a good  Grecian.  ‘ ‘ He 
is  what  is  much  better,”  cried  Goldsmith,  with  prompt  good* 
nature,  “he  is  a worthy,  humane  man.”  u Nay,  sir,”  rejoined 
the  logical  Johnson,  “ that  is  not  to  the  purpose  of  our  argu- 
ment ; that  will  prove  that  he  can  play  upon  the  fiddle  as  well 
as  Giardini,  as  that  he  is  an  eminent  Grecian.”  Goldsmith 
found  he  had  got  into  a scrape,  and  seized  upon  Giardini  to 
help  him  out  of  it.  “The  greatest  musical  performers,”  said 
he,  dexterously  turning  the  conversation,  “have  but  small 
emoluments;  Giardini,  I am  told,  does  not  get  above  seven 
hundred  a year.”  “That  is  indeed  but  little  for  a man  to  get,” 
observed  Johnson,  “ who  does  best  that  which  so  many  endea- 
vor  to  do.  There  is  nothing,  I think,  in  which  the  power  of 
art  is  shown  so  much  as  in  playing  on  the  fiddle.  In  all  other 
things  we  can  do  something  at  first.  Any  man  will  forge  a 
bar  of  iron,  if  you  give  him  a hammer ; not  so  well  as  a smith, 
but  tolerably.  A man  will  saw  a piece  of  wood,  and  make  a 
box,  though  a clumsy  one ; but  give  him  a fiddle  and  fiddlestick, 
and  he  can  do  nothing.” 

This,  upon  the  whole,  though  reported  by  the  one-sided  Bos- 
well, is  a tolerable  specimen  of  the  conversations  of  Goldsmith 
and  Johnson;  the  former  heedless,  often  illogical,  always  on 
the  kind-hearted  side  of  the  question,  and  prone  to  redeem  him- 
self by  lucky  hits;  the  latter  closely  argumentative,  studiously 
sententious,  often  profound,  and  sometimes  laboriously  pro- 
saic. 

They  had  an  argument  a few  days  later  at  Mr.  Thr ale’s  table, 
on  the  subject  of  suicide.  “Do  you  think,  sir/’  said  Boswell, 
“that  all  who  commit  suicide  are  mad?”  “Sir,”  replied  John- 
son, “they  are  not  often  universally  disordered  in  their  intel- 
lects, but  one  passion  presses  so  upon  them  that  they  yield  to 
it,  and  commit  suicide,  as  a passionate  man  will  stab  another. 
I have  often  thought,”  added  he,  “that  after  a man  has  taken 
the  resolution  to  kill  himself,  it  is  not  courage  in  him  to  do 
anything,  however  desperate,  because  he  has  nothing  to  fear.” 
“I  don’t  see  that,”  observed  Goldsmith.  “Nay,  but,  my  dear 
sir,”  rejoined  Johnson,  “why  should  you  not  see  what  every 
one  else  does?”  “It  is,”  replied  Goldsmith,  “for  fear  of  some- 
thing that  he  has  resolved  to  kill  himself ; and  will  not  that 
timid  disposition  restrain  him?”  “It  does  not  signify,”  pur- 


226 


OLIVER  OOLDSM1TU. 


sued  Johnson,  “that  the  fear  of  something  made  him  resolve; 
it  is  upon  the  state  of  his  mind,  after  the  resolution  is  taken, 
that  I argue.  Suppose  a man  either  from  fear,  or  pride,  or 
conscience,  or  whatever  motive,  has  resolved  to  kill  himself; 
when  once  the  resolution  is  taken  he  has  nothing  to  fear.  He 
may  then  go  and  take  the  King  of  Prussia  by  the  nose  at  the 
head  of  his  army.  He  cannot  fear  the  rack  who  is  determined 
to  kill  himself.”  Boswell  reports  no  more  of  the  discussion, 
though  Goldsmith  might  have  continued  it  with  advantage: 
for  the  very  timid  disposition,  which  through  fear  of  some' 
thing,  was  impelling  the  man  to  commit  suicide,  might  restrain 
him  from  an  act,  involving  the  punishment  of  the  rack,  more 
terrible  to  him  than  death  itself. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  in  all  these  reports  by  Boswell,  we  have 
scarcely  anything  but  the  remarks  of  Johnson;  it  is  only  by 
accident  that  he  now  and  then  gives  us  the  observations  of 
others,  when  they  are  necessary  to  explain  or  set  off  those  of 
his  hero.  “When  in  that  presence”  says  Miss  Burney,  “he 
was  unobservant,  if  not  contemptuous  of  every  one  else.  In 
truth,  when  he  met  with  Dr.  Johnson,  he  commonly  forbore 
even  answering  anything  that  was  said,  or  attending  to  any- 
thing that  went  forward,  lest  he  should  miss  the  smallest  sound 
from  that  voice,  to  which  he  paid  such  exclusive,  though  mer- 
ited homage.  But  the  moment  that  voice  burst  forth,  the  atten- 
tion which  it  excited  on  Mr.  Boswell  amounted  almost  to  pain. 
His  eyes  goggled  with  eagerness ; he  leaned  his  ear  almost  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  doctor;  and  his  mouth  dropped  open  to 
catch  every  syllable  that  might  be  uttered;  nay,  he  seemed 
not  only  to  dread  losing  a word,  but  to  be  anxious  not  to  miss 
a breathing ; as  if  hoping  from  it  latently,  or  mystically,  some 
information.” 

On  one  occasion  the  Doctor  detected  Boswell,  or  Bozzy,  as 
he  called  him,  eavesdropping  behind  his  chair,  as  he  was  con- 
versing with  Miss  Burney  at  Mr.  Thrale’s  table.  ‘ ‘ What  are 
you  doing  there,  sir?”  cried  he,  turning  round  angrily,  and 
clapping  his  hand  upon  his  knee.  “ Go  to  the  table,  sir.” 

Boswell  obeyed  with  an  air  of  affright  and  submission,  which 
raised  a smile  on  every  face.  Scarce  had  he  taken  his  seat, 
however,  at  a distance,  than  impatient  to  get  again  at  the  side 
of  Johnson,  he  rose  and  was  running  off  in  quest  of  something 
to  show  him,  when  the  doctor  roared  after  him  authoritatively, 
“ What  are  you  thinking  of,  sir?  Why  do  you  get  up  before 
the  cloth  is  removed?  Come  back  to  your  place,  sir;” — and 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


227 


fche  obsequious  spaniel  did  as  he  was  commanded.  4 4 Eunning 
about  in  the  middle  of  meals !”  muttered  the  doctor,  pursing 
his  mouth  at  the  same  time  to  restrain  his  rising  risibility. 

Boswell  got  another  rebuff  from  Johnson,  which  would  have 
demolished  any  other  man.  He  had  been  teasing  him  with 
many  direct  questions,  such  as  What  did  you  do,  sir?  What 
did  you  say,  sir?  until  the  great  philologist  became  perfectly 
enraged.  “I  will  not  be  put  to  the  question /”  roared  he. 
“Don’t  you  consider,  sir,  that  these  are  not  the  manners  of  a 
gentleman?  I will  not  be  baited  with  what  and  ivhy;  What  is 
this?  What  is  that?  Why  is  a cow’s  tail  long?  Why  is  a fox’s 
tail  bushy?”  “Why,  sir,”  replied  pil-garlick,  “you  are  so 
good  that  I venture  to  trouble  you.”  “ Sir,”  replied  Johnson, 
“my  being  so  good  is  no  reason  why  you  should  be  so  ^7Z.” 
“ You  have  but  two  topics,  sir;”  exclaimed  he  on  another  oc- 
casion, “yourself  and  me,  and  I am  sick  of  both.” 

Boswell’s  inveterate  disposition  to  toad  was  a sore  cause  of 
mortification  to  his  father,  the  old  laird  of  Auchinleck  (or  Af- 
fleck). He  had  been  annoyed  by  his  extravagant  devotion  to 
Paoli,  but  then  he  was  something  of  a military  hero ; but  this 
tagging  at  the  heels  of  Dr.  Johnson,  whom  he  considered  a 
kind  of  pedagogue,  set  his  Scotch  blood  in  a ferment.  4 4 There’s 
nae  hope  for  Jamie,  mon,”  said  he  to  a friend;  44  Jamie  is  gaen 
clean  gyte.  What  do  you  think,  mon?  He’s  done  wi’  Paoli; 
he’s  off  wi’  the  land-louping  scoundrel  of  a Corsican ; and  whose 
tail  do  you  think  he  has  pinn’d  himself  to  now,  mon?  A do- 
minie , mon;  an  auld  dominie:  he  keeped  a schule,  and  cau’d 
it  an  acaadamy . ” 

We  shall  show  in  the  next  chapter  that  Jamie’s  devotion  to 
the  dominie  did  not  go  unrewarded. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

CHANGES  IN  THE  LITERARY  CLUB — JOHNSON’S  OBJECTION  TO  GAR- 
RICK— ELECTION  OF  BOSWELL. 

The  Literary  Club  (as  we  have  termed  the  club  in  Gerard 
Street,  though  it  took  that  name  some  time  later)  had  now 
being  in  existence  several  years.  Johnson  was  exceedingly 
chary  at  first  of  its  exclusiveness,  and  opposed  to  its  being 
augmented  in  number.  Not  long  after  its  institution,  Sir 


228 


OLIVER  GOLD  SMITH 


Joshua  Beynolds  was  speaking  of  it  to  Garrick.  “ I like  it 
much,”  said  little  David,  briskly;  “ I think  I shall  be  of  you.” 
“ When  Sir  Joshua  mentioned  this  to  Dr.  Johnson,”  says  Bos- 
well, “he  was  much  displeased  with  the  actor’s  conceit. 

4 He'll  be  of  us  f ’ growled  he.  ‘ flow  does  he  know  we  will 
permit  him?  The  first  duke  in  England  has  no  right  to  hold 
such  language.’  ” 

When  Sir  John  Hawkins  spoke  favorably  of  Garrick’s  pre- 
tensions, “Sir,”  replied  Johnson,  “he  will  disturb  us  by  his 
buffoonery.”  In  the  same  spirit  he  declared  to  Mr.  Thrale, 
that  if  Garrick  should  apply  for  admission,  he  would  black-ball 
him.  “Who,  sir?”  exclaimed  Thrale,  with  surprise;  “ Mr.  Gar- 
rick— your  friend,  your  companion — black-ball  him !”  ‘ ‘ Why, 

sir,”  replied  Johnson,  “I  love  my  little  David  dearly— better 
than  all  or  any  of  his  flatterers  do ; but  surely  one  ought  to  sit 
in  a society  like  ours, 

“ ‘Unelbo'wed  by  a gamester,  pimp,  or  player.’  ” 


The  exclusion  from  the  club  was  a sore  mortification  to  Gar- 
rick, though  he  bore  it  without  complaining.  He  could  not 
help  continually  to  ask  questions  about  it — what  was  going  on 
there — whether  he  was  ever  the  subject  of  conversation.  By 
degrees  the  rigor  of  the  club  relaxed:  some  of  the  members 
grew  negligent.  Beauclerc  lost  his  right  of  membership  by 
neglecting  to  attend.  On  his  marriage,  however,  with  Lady 
Diana  Spencer,  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  and 
recently  divorced  from  Viscount  Bolingbroke,  he  had  claimed 
and  regained  his  seat  in  the  club.  The  number  of  members 
had  likewise  been  augmented.  The  proposition  to  increase  it 
originated  with  Goldsmith.  “It  would  give,”  he  thought,  “an 
agreeable  variety  to  their  meetings ; for  there  can  be  nothing 
new  among  us,”  said  he;  “we  have  travelled  over  each  other’s 
minds.”  Johnson  was  piqued  at  the  suggestion.  “Sir,”  said 
he,  “you  have  not  travelled  over  my  mind,  I promise  you.” 
Sir  Joshua,  less  confident  in  the  exhaustless  fecundity  of  his 
mind,  felt  and  acknowledged  the  force  of  Goldsmith’s  suggest- 
ion. Several  new  members,  therefore,  had  been  added;  the 
first,  to  his  great  joy,  was  David  Garrick.  Goldsmith,  who 
was  now  on  cordial  terms  with  him,  had  zealously  promoted 
his  election,  and  Johnson  had  given  it  his  warm  approbation. 
Another  new  member  was  Beauclerc’s  friend,  Lord  Charle- 
mont;  and  a still  more  important  one  was  Mr.,  afterward  Six 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  229 

William  Jones,  the  famous  Orientalist,  at  that  time  a young 
lawyer  of  the  Temple  and  a distinguished  scholar. 

To  the  great  astonishment  of  the  club,  Johnson  now  proposed 
his  devoted  follower,  Boswell,  as  a member.  He  did  it  in  a 
note  addressed  to  Goldsmith,  who  presided  on  the  evening  of 
the  23d  of  April.  The  nomination  was  seconded  by  Beauclerc. 
According  to  the  rules  of  the  club,  the  ballot  would  take  place 
at  the  next  meeting  (on  the  30th) ; there  was  an  intervening 
week,  therefore,  in  which  to  discuss  the  pretensions  of  the  can- 
didate. We  may  easily  imagine  the  discussions  that  took 
place.  Boswell  had  made  himself  absurd  in  such  a variety  of 
ways,  that  the  very  idea  of  his  admission  was  exceedingly  irk- 
some to  some  of  the  members.  “The  honor  of  being  elected 
into  the  Turk’s  Head  Club,  ” said  the  Bishop  of  St.  Asaph,  4 ‘ is 
not  inferior  to  that  of  being  representative  of  Westminster  and 
Surrey;”  what  had  Boswell  done  to  merit  such  an  honor?  what 
chance  had  he  of  gaining  it?  The  answer  was  simple:  he  had 
been  the  persevering  worshipper,  if  not  sycophant  of  Johnson. 
The  great  lexicographer  had  a heart  to  be  won  by  apparent  af- 
fection ; he  stood  forth  authoritatively  in  support  of  his  vassal. 
If  asked  to  state  the  merits  of  the  candidate,  he  summed  them 
up  in  an  indefinite  but  comprehensive  word  of  his  own  coining ; 
he  was  clubable.  He  moreover  gave  significant  hints  that  if 
Boswell  were  kept  out  he  should  oppose  the  admission  of  any 
other  candidate.  No  further  opposition  was  made;  in  fact 
none  of  the  members  had  been  so  fastidious  and  exclusive  in 
regard  to  the  club  as  Johnson  himself;  and  if  he  were  pleased, 
they  were  easily  satisfied ; besides,  they  knew  that  with  all  his 
faults,  Boswell  was  a cheerful  companion,  and  possessed  lively 
social  qualities. 

On  Friday,  when  the  ballot  was  to  take  place,  Beauclerc 
gave  a dinner,  at  his  house  in  the  Adelphi,  where  Boswell  met 
several  of  the  members  who  were  favorable  to  his  election. 
After  dinner  the  latter  adjourned  to  the  club,  leaving  Boswell 
in  company  with  Lady  Di  Beauclerc  until  the  fate  of  his  elect- 
ion should  be  known.  He  sat,  he  says,  in  a state  of  anxiety 
which  even  the  charming  conversation  of  Lady  Hi  could  not 
entirely  dissipate.  It  was  not  long  before  tidings  were  brought 
of  his  election,  and  he  was  conducted  to  the  place  of  meeting, 
where,  beside  the  company  he  had  met  at  dinner,  Burke,  Dr. 
Nugent,  Garrick,  Goldsmith,  and  Mr.  William  Jones  were 
waiting  to  receive  him.  The  club,  notwithstanding  all  its 
learned  dignity  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  could  at  times  “ um 


230 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


bend  and  play  the  fool”  as  well  as  less  important  bodies. 
Some  of  its  jocose  conversations  have  at  times  leaked  out,  and 
a society  in  which  Goldsmith  could  venture  to  sing  his  song  of 
“ an  old  woman  tossed  in  a blanket,”  could  not  be  so  very  staid 
in  its  gravity.  We  may  suppose,  therefore,  the  jokes  that  had 
been  passing  among  the  members  while  awaiting  the  arrival  of 
Boswell.  Beauclerc  himself  could  not  have  repressed  his  dis- 
position for  a sarcastic  pleasantry.  At  least  we  have  a right  to 
presume  all  this  from  the  conduct  of  Dr.  Johnson  himself. 

With  all  his  gravity  he  possessed  a deep  fund  of  quiet  hu- 
mor, and  felt  a kind  of  whimsical  responsibility  to  protect  the 
club  from  the  absurd  propensities  of  the  very  questionable 
associate  he  had  thus  inflicted  on  them.  Rising,  therefore,  as 
Boswell  entered,  he  advanced  with  a very  doctorial  air,  placed 
himself  behind  a chair,  on  which  he  leaned  as  on  a desk  or  pul- 
pit, and  then  delivered,  ex  cathedra,  a mock  solemn  charge, 
pointing  out  the  conduct  expected  from  him  as  a good  member 
of  the  club ; what  he  was  to  do,  and  especially  what  he  was  to 
avoid;  including  in  the  latter,  no  doubt,  all  those  petty,  pry- 
ing, questioning,  gossiping,  babbling  habits  which  had  so  often 
grieved  the  spirit  of  the  lexicographer.  It  is  to  be  regretted 
that  Boswell  has  never  thought  proper  to  note  down  the  par- 
ticulars of  this  charge,  which,  from  the  well  known  characters 
and  positions  of  the  parties,  might  have  furnished  a parallel  to 
tho  noted  charge  of  Launcelot  Gobbo  to  his  dog. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

DINNER  AT  DILLY’S— CONVERSATIONS  ON  NATURAL  HISTORY— IN- 
TERMEDDLING OF  BOSWELL  — DISPUTE  ABOUT  TOLERATION  — 
JOHNSON’S  REBUFF  TO  GOLDSMITH— HIS  APOLOGY — MAN-WOR- 
SHIP— DOCTORS  MAJOR  AND  MINOR— A FAREWELL  VISIT. 

A few  days  after  the  serio-comic  scene  of  the  elevation  of 
Boswell  into  the  Literary  Club,  we  find  that  indefatigable 
biographer  giving  particulars  of  a dinner  at  the  Dillys,  book- 
sellers, in  the  Poultry,  at  which  he  met  Goldsmith  and  J ohn- 
son,  with  several  other  literary  characters.  His  anecdotes  of 
the  conversation,  of  course,  go  to  glorify  Dr.  Johnson;  for,  as 
be  observes  in  his  biography,  “ his  conversation  alone,  or  what 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


231 


led  to  it,  or  was  interwoven  with  it,  is  the  business  of  this 
work.”  Still  on  the  present,  as  on  other  occasions,  he  gives 
unintentional  and  perhaps  unavoidable  gleams  of  Goldsmith’s 
good  sense,  which  show  that  the  latter  only  wanted  a less  pre- 
judiced and  more  impartial  reporter,  to  put  down  the  charge  of 
colloquial  incapacity  so  unjustly  fixed  upon  him.  The  conver- 
sation turned  upon  the  natural  history  of  birds,  a beautiful 
subject,  on  which  the  poet,  from  his  recent  studies,  his  habits 
of  observation,  and  his  natural  tastes,  must  have  talked  with 
instruction  and  feeling;  yet,  though  we  have  much  of  what 
Johnson  said,  we  have  only  a casual  remark  or  two  of  Gold- 
smith. One  was  on  the  migration  of  swallows,  which  he  pro- 
nounced partial;  “The  stronger  ones,”  said  he,  “migrate,  the 
others  do  not.” 

Johnson  denied  to  the  brute  creation  the  faculty  of  reason. 
“Birds,”  said  he,  “build  by  instinct;  they  never  improve; 
they  build  their  first  nest  as  well  as  any  one  they  ever  build.  ” 
“ Yet  we  see,”  observed  Goldsmith,  “ if  you  take  away  a bird’s 
nest  with  the  eggs  in  it,  she  will  make  a slighter  nest  and  lay 
again.”  “ Sir0’  replied  Johnson,  “that  is  because  at  first  she 
has  full  time,  and  makes  her  nest  deliberately.  In  the  case 
you  mention,  she  is  pressed  to  lay,  and  must,  therefore,  make 
her  nest  quickly,  and  consequently  it  will  be  slight.”  “The 
nidification  of  birds,”  rejoined  Goldsmith,  “is  what  is  least 
known  in  natural  history,  though  one  of  the  most  curious 
things  in  it.”  While  conversation  was  going  on  in  this  placid, 
agreeable  and  instructive  manner,  the  eternal  meddler  and 
busy-body  Boswell,  must  intrude,  to  put  it  in  a brawl.  The 
Dillys  were  dissenters ; two  of  their  guests  were  dissenting 
clergymen;  another,  Mr.  Toplady,  was  a clergyman  of  the 
established  church.  Johnson,  himself,  was  a zealous,  uncom- 
promising churchman.  None  but  a marplot  like  Boswell  would 
have  thought,  on  such  an  occasion,  and  in  such  company,  to 
broach  the  subject  of  religious  toleration;  but,  as  has  been 
well  observed,  ‘ 4 it  was  his  perverse  inclination  to  introduce 
subjects  that  he  hoped  would  produce  difference  and  debate.” 
In  this  present  instance  he  gained  his  point.  An  animated 
dispute  immediately  arose,  in  which,  according  to  Boswell’s 
report,  Johnson  monopolized  the  greater  part  of  the  conversa- 
tion ; not  always  treating  the  dissenting  clergymen  with  the 
greatest  courtesy,  and  even  once  wounding  the  feelings  of  the 
mild  and  amiable  Bennet  Langton  by  his  harshness. 

Goldsmith  mingled  a little  ip  the  dispute  and  with  some 


232 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


vantage,  but  was  cut  short  by  flat  contradictions  when  most 
in  the  right.  He  sat  for  a time  silent  but  impatient  under 
such  overbearing  dogmatism,  though  Boswell,  with  his  usual 
misinterpretation,  attributes  his  “ restless  agitation’’  to  a wish 
to  get  in  and  shine.  “Finding  himself  excluded,”  continues 
Boswell,  “ he  had  taken  his  hat  to  go  away,  but  remained  for  a 
time  with  it  in  his  hand,  like  a gamester,  who,  at  the  end  of  a 
long  night,  lingers  for  a little  while  to  see  if  he  can  have  a 
favorable  opportunity  to  finish  with  success.”  Once  he  was 
beginning  to  speak  when  he  was  overpowered  by  the  loud 
voice  of  Johnson,  who  was  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  table,  and 
did  not  perceive  his  attempt ; whereupon  he  threw  down,  as  it 
were,  his  hat  and  his  argument,  and,  darting  an  angry  glance 
at  Johnson,  exclaimed  in  a bitter  tone,  44  Take  it.” 

Just  then  one  of  the  disputants  was  beginning  to  speak, 
when  Johnson  uttering  some  sound,  as  if  about  to  interrupt 
him,  Goldsmith,  according  to  Boswell,  seized  the  opportunity 
to  vent  his  own  envy  and  spleen  under  pretext  of  supporting 
another  person.  “Sir,”  said  he  to  Johnson,  “ the  gentleman 
has  heard  you  patiently  for  an  hour;  pray  allow  us  now  to 
hear  him.”  It  was  a reproof  in  the  lexicographer’s  own  style, 
and  he  may  have  felt  that  he  merited  it;  but  he  was  not 
accustomed  to  be  reproved.  “Sir,”  said  he,  sternly,  “I  was 
not  interrupting  the  gentleman;  I was  only  giving  him  a 
signal  of  my  attention.  Sir,  you  are  impertinent .”  Goldsmith 
made  no  reply,  but  after  some  time  went  away,  having  am 
other  engagement. 

That  evening,  as  Boswell  was  on  the  way  with  Johnson  and 
Langton  to  the  club,  he  seized  the  occasion  to  make  some  dis- 
paraging remarks  on  Goldsmith,  which  he  thought  Tvould  just 
then  be  acceptable  to  the  great  lexicographer.  4 4 It  was  a 
pity,”  he  said,  4 4 that  Goldsmith  would,  on  every  occasion, 
endeavor  to  shine,  by  which  he  so  often  exposed  himself.” 
Langton  contrasted  him  with  Addison,  who,  content  with  the 
fame  of  his  writings,  acknowledged  himself  unfit  for  conversa- 
tion ; and  on  being  taxed  by  a lady  with  silence  in  company, 
replied,  44  Madam,  I have  but  nine  pence  in  ready  money,  but 
I can  draw  for  a thousand  pounds.”  To  this  Boswell  rejoined 
that  Goldsmith  had  a great  deal  of  gold  in  his  cabinet,  but  was 
always  taking  out  his  purse.  44  Yes,  sir,”  chuckled  Johnson, 
44  and  that  so  often  an  empty  purse.” 

By  this  time  Johnson  arrived  at  the  club,  however,  his  angry 
feelings  had  subsided,  and  his  native  generosity  and  sense  of 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


233 


justice  had  got  the  uppermost.  He  found  Goldsmith  in  com- 
pany with  Burke,  Garrick,  and  other  members,  but  sitting 
silent  and  apart,  “brooding,”  as  Boswell  says,  “over  the 
reprimand  he  had  received.”  Johnson’s  good  heart  yearned  to- 
ward him;  and  knowing  his  placable  nature,  “ I’ll  make  Gold- 
smith forgive  me,”  whispered  he;  then,  with  a loud  voice, 
“Dr.  Goldsmith,”  said  he,  “something  passed  to-day  where 
you  and  I dined — I ask  your  pardon.  ” The  ire  of  the  poet  was 
extinguished  in  an  instant,  and  his  grateful  affection  for  the 
magnanimous  though  sometimes  overbearing  moralist  rushed 
to  his  heart.  “It  must  be  much  from  you,  sir,”  said  he,  “ that 
I take  ill!”  “And  so,”  adds  Boswell,  “the  difference  was 
over,  and  they  were  on  as  easy  terms  as  ever,  and  Goldsmith 
rattled  away  as  usual.”  We  do  not  think  these  stories  tell  to 
the  poet’s  disadvantage,  even  though  related  by  Boswell. 

Goldsmith,  with  all  his  modesty,  could  not  be  ignorant  of 
his  proper  merit;  and  must  have  felt  annoyed  at  times  at 
being  undervalued  and  elbowed  aside  by  light-minded  or  dull 
men,  in  their  blind  and  exclusive  homage  to  the  literary  auto- 
crat. It  was  a fine  reproof  he  gave  to  Boswell  on  one  occasion, 
for  talking  of  Johnston  as  entitled  to  the  honor  of  exclusive 
superiority.  4 4 Sir,  you  are  for  making  a monarchy  what 
should  be  a republic.”  On  another  occasion,  when  he  was  con- 
versing in  company  with  great  vivacity,  and  apparently  to  the 
satisfaction  of  those  around  him,  an  honest  Swiss,  who  sat 
near,  one  George  Michael  Moser,  keeper  of  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy, perceiving  Dr.  Johnson  rolling  himself  as  if  about  to 
speak,  exclaimed,  4 4 Stay,  stay!  Toctor  Shonson  is  going  to 
say  something.”  44  And  are  you  sure,  sir,”  replied  Goldsmith, 
sharply,  4 4 that  you  can  comprehend  what  he  says?” 

This  clever  rebuke,  which  gives  the  main  zest  to  the  anec- 
dote, is  omitted  by  Boswell,  who  probably  did  not  perceive  the 
point  of  it. 

He  relates  another  anecdote  of  the  kind,  on  the  authority  of 
Johnson  himself.  The  latter  and  Goldsmith  were  one  evening 
in  company  with  the  Rev.  George  Graham,  a master  of  Eton, 
who,  notwithstanding  the  sobriety  of  his  cloth,  had  got  intoxi- 
cated 44  to  about  the  pitch  of  looking  at  one  man  and  talking 
to  another.”  “ Doctor,”  cried  he  in  an  ecstacy  of  devotion  and 
good-will,  but  goggling  by  mistake  upon  Goldsmith,  44 1 should 
be  glad  to  see  you  at  Eton.”  44 1 shall  be  glad  to  wait  upon 
you,”  replied  Goldsmith.  44  No,  no!”  cried  the  other  eagerly, 
■i%tis  not  you  I mean.  Doctor  Minor , ’tis  Doctor  Major  there.” 


234 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


u You  may  easily  conceive,”  said  Johnson  in  relating  the  anec- 
dote, “ what  effect  this  had  upon  Goldsmith,  who  was  irascible 
as  a hornet.”  The  only  comment,  however,  which  he  is  said 
to  have  made,  partakes  more  of  quaint  and  dry  humor  than 
bitterness:  “ That  Graham, ” said  he,  “ is  enough  to  make  one 
commit  suicide.”  What  more  could  be  said  to  express  the  in- 
tolerable nuisance  of  a consummate  bore  % 

We  have  now  given  the  last  scenes  between  Goldsmith  and 
Johnson  which  stand  recorded  by  Boswell.  The  latter  called 
on  the  poet  a few  days  after  the  dinner  at  Dilly’s,  to  take 
leave  of  him  prior  to  departing  for  Scotland ; yet,  even  in  this 
last  interview,  he  contrives  to  get  up  a charge  of  “jealousy 
and  envy.”  Goldsmith,  he  would  fain  persuade  us,  is  very 
angry  that  Johnson  is  going  to  travel  with  him  in  Scotland ; 
and  endeavors  to  persuade  him  that  he  will  be  a dead  weight 
“to  lug  along  through  the  Highlands  and  Hebrides.”  Any  one 
else,  knowing  the  character  and  habits  of  Johnson,  would 
have  thought  the  same ; and  no  one  but  Boswell  would  have 
supposed  his  office  of  bear-leader  to  the  ursa  major  a thing  to 
be  envied.* 


* One  of  Peter  Pindar’s  (Dr.  Wolcot)  most  amusing  jeux  d ’ esprit  is  his  congratu- 
latory epistle  to  Boswell  on  this  tour,  of  which  we  subjoin  a few  lines. 

O Boswell,  Bozzy,  Bruce,  whate’er  thy  name, 

Thou  mighty  shark  for  anecdote  and  fame; 

Thou  jackal,  leading  lion  Johnson  forth, 

To  eat  M‘Pherson  ’midst  his  native  north ; 

To  frighten  grave  professors  with  his  roar, 

And  shake  the  Hebrides  from  shore  to  shore. 


Bless’d  be  thy  labors,  most  adventurous  Bozzy, 

Bold  rival  of  Sir  John  and  Dame  Piozzi; 

Heavens!  with  what  laurels  shall  thy  head  be  crown’d! 

A grove,  a forest,  shall  thy  ears  surround! 

Yes!  whilst  the  Rambler  shall  a comet  blaze,  * 

And  gild  a world  of  darkness  with  his  rays, 

Thee,  too,  that  world  with  wonderment  shall  hail, 

A lively,  bouncing  cracker  at  his  tail ! 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


235 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

PROJECT  OF  A DICTIONARY  OF  ARTS  AND  SCIENCES — DISAPPOINT- 
MENT— NEGLIGENT  AUTHORSHIP — APPLICATION  FOR  A PENSION 
—BEATTIE’S  ESSAY  ON  TRUTH — PUBLIC  ADULATION — A HIGH- 
MINDED  REBUKE. 

The  work  which  Goldsmith  had  still  in  hand  being  already 
paid  for,  and  the  money  gone,  some  new  scheme  must  be  de- 
vised to  provide  for  the  past  and  the  future— for  impending 
debts  which  threatened  to  crush  him,  and  expenses  which 
were  continually  increasing.  He  now  projected  a work  of 
greater  compass  than  any  he  had  yet  undertaken ; a Diction- 
ary of  Arts  and  Sciences  on  a comprehensive  scale,  which  was 
to  occupy  a number  of  volumes.  For  this  he  received  promises 
of  assistance  from  several  powerful  hands.  Johnson  was  to 
contribute  an  article  on  ethics;  Burke,  an  abstract  of  his 
“ Essay  on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful,”  an  essay  on  the  Berk- 
leyan  system  of  philosophy,  and  others  on  political  science; 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  an  essay  on  painting;  and  Garrick,  while 
he  undertook  on  his  own  part  to  furnish  an  essay  on  acting, 
engaged  Dr.  Burney  to  contribute  an  article  on  music.  Here 
was  a great  array  of  talent  positively  engaged,  while  other 
writers  of  eminence  were  to  be  sought  for  the  various  depart- 
ments of  science.  Goldsmith  was  to  edit  the  whole.  An  un- 
dertaking of  this  kind,  while  it  did  not  incessantly  task  and 
exhaust  his  inventive  powers  by  original  composition,  would 
give  agreeable  and  profitable  exercise  to  his  taste  and  judg- 
ment in  selecting,  compiling,  and  arranging,  and  he  calculated 
to  diffuse  over  the  whole  the  acknowledged  graces  of  his  style. 

He  drew  up  a prospectus  of  the  plan,  which  is  said  by  Bishop 
Percy,  who  saw  it,  to  have  been  written  with  uncommon 
ability,  and  to  have  had  that  perspicuity  and  elegance  for 
which  his  writings  are  remarkable.  This  paper,  unfortu- 
nately, is  no  longer  in  existence. 

Goldsmith’s  expectations,  always  sanguine  respecting  any 
new  plan,  were  raised  to  an  extraordinary  height  by  the  pre- 
sent project ; and  well  they  might  be,  when  we  consider  the 
powerful  coadjutors  already  pledged.  They  were  doomed, 
however,  to  complete  disappointment,  Davies,  the  bibliopole 


236 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


of  Russell  Street,  lets  us  into  the  secret  of  this  failure.  “The 
booksellers,”  said  he,  “notwithstanding  they  had  a very  good 
opinion  of  his  abilities,  yet  were  startled  at  the  bulk,  import- 
ance, and  expense  of  so  great  an  undertaking,  the  fate  of 
which  was  to  depend  upon  the  industry  of  a man  with  whose 
indolence  of  temper  and  method  of  procrastination  they  had 
long  been  acquainted.” 

Goldsmith  certainly  gave  reason  for  some  such  distrust  by 
the  heedlessness  with  which  he  conducted  his  literary  under-* 
takings.  Those  unfinished,  but  paid  for,  would  be  suspended 
to  make  way  for  some  job  that  was  to  provide  for  present  ne- 
cessities. Those  thus  hastily  taken  up  would  be  as  hastily  exe- 
cuted, and  the  whole,  however  pressing,  would  be  shoved  aside 
and  left  “ at  loose  ends,”  on  some  sudden  call  to  social  enjoy- 
ment or  recreation. 

Cradock  tells  us  that  on  one  occasion,  when  Goldsmith  was 
hard  at  work  on  his  Natural  History,  he  sent  to  Dr.  Percy  and 
himself,  entreating  them  to  finish  some  pages  of  his  work 
which  lay  upon  his  table,  and  for  which  the  press  was  urgent, 
he  being  detained  by  other  engagements  at  Windsor.  They 
met  by  appointment  at  his  chambers  in  the  Temple,  where  they 
found  everything  in  disorder,  and  costly  books  lying  scattered 
about  on  the  tables  and  on  the  floor ; many  of  the  books  on 
natural  history  which  he  had  recently  consulted  lay  open 
among  uncorrected  proof-sheets.  The  subject  in  hand,  and 
from  which  he  had  suddenly  broken  off,  related  to  birds. 
“Do  you  know  anything  about  birds?”  asked  Dr.  Percy,  smil- 
ing. “ Not  an  atom,”  replied  Cradock;  “do  you?”  “Not  I!  I 
scarcely  know  a goose  from  a swan : however,  let  us  try  what 
we  can  do.”  They  set  to  work  and  completed  their  friendly 
task.  Goldsmith,  however,  when  he  came  to  revise  it,  made 
such  alterations  that  they  could  neither  of  them  recognize  their 
own  share.  The  engagement  at  Windsor,  which  had  thus 
caused  Goldsmith  to  break  off  suddenly  from  his  multifarious 
engagements,  was  a party  of  pleasure  with  some  literary  ladies. 
Another  anecdote  was  current,  illustrative  of  the  carelessness 
with  which  he  executed  works  requiring  accuracy  and  re- 
search. On  the  22d  of  June  he  had  received  payment  in  ad- 
vance for  a Grecian  History  in  two  volumes,  though  only  one 
was  finished.  As  he  was  pushing  on  doggedly  at  the  second 
volume,  Gibbon,  the  historian,  called  in.  “You  are  the  man 
of  all  others  I wish  to  see,”  cried  the  poet,  glad  to  be  saved  the 
trouble  of  reference  to  his  books.  “What  was  the  name  of 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


237 


that  Indian  king  who  gave  Alexander  the  Great  so  much 
trouble?”  “ Montezuma,”  replied  Gibbon,  sportively.  The 
heedless  author  was  about  committing  the  name  to  paper  with- 
out reflection,  when  Gibbon  pretended  to  recollect  himself, 
and  gave  the  true  name,  Porus. 

This  story,  very  probably,  was  a sportive  exaggeration ; but 
it  was  a multiplicity  of  anecdotes  like  this  and  the  preceding 
one,  some  true  and  some  false,  which  had  impaired  the  confi- 
dence of  booksellers  in  Goldsmith,  as  a man  to  be  relied  on  for 
a task  requiring  wide  and  accurate  research,  and  close  and 
long-continued  application.  The  project  of  the  Universal 
Dictionary,  therefore,  met  with  no  encouragement,  and  fell 
through. 

The  failure  of  this  scheme,  on  which  he  had  built  such  spa- 
cious hopes,  sank  deep  into  Goldsmith’s  heart.  He  was  still 
further  grieved  and  mortified  by  the  failure  of  an  effort  made 
by  some  of  his  friends  to  obtain  for  him  a pension  from  gov- 
ernment. There  had  been  a talk  of  the  disposition  of  the  min- 
istry to  extend  the  bounty  of  the  crown  to  distinguished  liter- 
ary men  in  pecuniary  difficulty,  without  regard  to  their  politi- 
cal creed : when  the  merits  and  claims  of  Goldsmith,  however, 
were  laid  before  them,  they  met  no  favor.  The  sin  of  sturdy 
independence  lay  at  his  door.  He  had  refused  to  become  a 
ministerial  hack  when  offered  a carte  blanche  by  Parson  Scott, 
the  cabinet  emissary.  The  wondering  parson  had  left  him  in 
poverty  and  “his  garret ,”  and  there  the  ministry  were  dis- 
posed to  suffer  him  to  remain. 

In  the  meantime  Dr.  Beattie  comes  out  with  his  ‘ 1 Essay  on 
Truth,  ” and  all  the  orthodox  world  are  thrown  into  a paroxysm 
of  contagious  ecstasy.  He  is  cried  up  as  the  great  champion 
of  Christianity  against  the  attacks  of  modern  philosophers  and 
infidels ; he  is  feted  and  flattered  in  every  way.  He  receives 
at  Oxford  the  honorary  degree  of  doctor  of  civil  law,  at  the 
same  time  with  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  The  king  sends  for  him, 
praises  his  “ Essay,”  and  gives  him  a pension  of  two  hundred 
pounds. 

Goldsmith  feels  more  acutely  the  denial  of  a pension  to  him- 
self when  one  has  thus  been  given  unsolicited  to  a man  he 
might  without  vanity  consider  so  much  his  inferior.  He  was 
not  one  to  conceal  his  feelings.  “Here’s  such  a stir,”  said  he 
one  day  at  Thrale’s  table,  ‘ ‘ about  a fellow  that  has  written 
one  book,  and  I have  written  so  many !” 

“Ah,  doctor!”  exclaimed  Johnson,  in  one  of  his  caustic 


238 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


moods,  “there  go  fwo  and  forty  sixpences,  you  know,  to  one 
guinea.1'  This  is  one  of  the  cuts  at  poor  Goldsmith  in  which 
Johnson  went  contrary  to  head  and  heart  in  his  love  for  say- 
ing what  is  called  a “good  thing.”  No  one  knew  better  than 
himself  the  comparative  superiority  of  the  writings  of  Gold- 
smith; but  the  jingle  of  the  sixpences  and  the  guinea  was  not 
to  be  resisted. 

“Everybody,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Thrale,  “loves  Dr.  Beattie, 
but  Goldsmith,  who  says  he  cannot  bear  the  sight  of  so  much 
applause  as  they  all  bestow  upon  him.  Did  he  not  tell  us 
so  himself  no  one  would  believe  he  was  so  exceedingly  ill- 
natured.” 

He  told  them  ©o  himself  because  he  was  too  open  and  unre- 
served to  disguise  his  feelings,  and  because  he  really  consid- 
ered the  praise  lavished  on  Beattie  extravagant,  as  in  fact  it 
was.  It  was  all,  of  course,  set  down  to  sheer  envy  and  un- 
charitableness. To  add  to  his  annoyance,  he  found  his  friend, 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  joining  in  the  universal  adulation.  He 
had  painted  a full-length  portrait  of  Beattie  decked  in  the  doc- 
tor’s robes  in  which  he  had  figured  at  Oxford,  with  the  ‘ ‘ Essay 
on  Truth”  under  his  arm  and  the  angel  of  truth  at  his  side, 
while  Voltaire  figured  as  one  of  the  demons  of  infidelity,  so- 
phistry, and  falsehood,  driven  into  utter  darkness. 

Goldsmith  had  known  Voltaire  in  early  life;  he  had  been  his 
admirer  and  his  biographer ; he  grieved  to  find  him  receiving 
such  an  insult  from  the  classic  pencil  of  his  friend.  “ It  is  un- 
worthy of  you,”  said  he  to  Sir  Joshua,  “to  debase  so  high  a 
genius  as  Voltaire  before  so  mean  a writer  as  Beattie.  Beattie 
and  his  book  will  be  forgotten  in  ten  years,  while  Voltaire’s 
fame  will  last  forever.  Take  care  it  does  not  perpetuate  this 
picture  to  the  shame  of  such  a man  as  you.”  This  noble  and 
high-minded  rebuke  is  the  only  instance  on  record  of  any  re- 
proachful words  between  the  poet  and  the  painter ; and  we  are 
happy  to  find  that  it  did  not  destroy  the  harmony  of  their 
intercourse. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


239 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

TOIL  WITHOUT  HOPE — THE  POET  IN  THE  GREEN-ROOM — IN  THE 
FLOWER  GARDEN— AT  VAUXHALL — DISSIPATION  WITHOUT  GAY- 
ETY — CRADOCK  IN  TOWN — FRIENDLY  SYMPATHY — A PARTING 
SCENE— AN  INVITATION  TO  PLEASURE. 

Thwarted  in  the  plans  and  disappointed  in  the  hopes  which 
had  recently  cheered  and  animated  him,  Goldsmith  found  the 
labor  at  his  half -finished  tasks  doubly  irksome  from  the  consci- 
entiousness that  the  completion  of  them  could  not  relieve  him 
from  his  pecuniary  embarrassments.  His  impaired  health, 
also,  rendered  him  less  capable  than  formerly  of  sedentary 
application,  and  continual  perplexities  disturbed  the  flow  of 
thought  necessary  for  original  composition.  He  lost  his  usual 
gayety  and  good-humor,  and  became,  at  times,  peevish  and 
irritable.  Too  proud  of  spirit  to  seek  sympathy  or  relief  from 
his  friends,  for  the  pecuniary  difficulties  he  had  brought  upon 
himself  by  his  errors  and  extravagance ; and  unwilling,  per- 
haps, to  make  known  their  amount,  he  buried  his  cares  and 
anxieties  in  his  own  bosom,  and  endeavored  in  company  to 
keep  up  his  usual  air  of  gayety  and  unconcern.  This  gave  his 
conduct  an  appearance  of  fitfulness  and  caprice,  varying  sud- 
denly from  moodiness  to  mirth,  and  from  silent  gravity  to 
shallow  laughter ; causing  surprise  and  ridicule  in  those  who 
were  not  aware  of  the  sickness  of  heart  which  lay  beneath. 

His  poetical  reputation,  too,  was  sometimes  a disadvantage 
to  him ; it  drew  upon  him  a notoriety  which  he  was  not  always 
in  the  mood  or  the  vein  to  act  up  to.  “ Good  heavens,  Mr. 
Foote,”  exclaimed  an  actress  at  the  Haymarket  theatre,  “ what 
a humdrum  kind  of  a man  Dr.  Goldsmith  appears  in  our  green- 
room compared  with  the  figure  he  makes  in  his  poetry !”  “ The 
reason  of  that,  madam,”  replied  Foote,  “is  because  the  muses 
are  better  company  than  the  players.” 

Beauclerc’s  letters  to  his  friend,  Lord  Charlemont,  who  was 
absent  in  Ireland,  give  us  now  and  then  an  indication  of  the 
whereabout  of  the  poet  during  the  present  year.  “I  have 
been  but  once  to  the  club  since  you  left  England,”  writes  he-, 
“we  were  entertained,  as  usual,  with  Goldsmith’s  absurdity.” 
With  Beauclerc  everything  was  absurd  that  was  not  polished 


240 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


and  pointed.  In  another  letter  he  threatens,  unless  Lord 
Charlemont  returns  to  England,  to  bring  over  the  whole  club, 
and  let  them  loose  upon  him  to  drive  him  home  by  their  pecu- 
liar habits  of  annoyance — Johnson  shall  spoil  his  books;  Gold- 
smith shall  pull  his  flowers ; and  last,  and  most  intolerable  of 
all,  Boswell  shall — talk  to  him.  It  would  appear  that  the  poet, 
who  had  a passion  for  flowers,  was  apt  to  pass  much  of  his 
time  in  the  garden  when  on  a visit  to  a country  seat,  much  to 
the  detriment  of  the  flower-beds  and  the  despair  of  the  gar- 
dener. 

The  summer  wore  heavily  away  with  Goldsmith.  He  had 
not  his  usual  solace  of  a country  retreat;  his  health  was  im- 
paired and  his  spirits  depressed.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  who 
perceived  the  state  of  his  mind,  kindly  gave  him  much  of  his 
company.  In  the  course  of  their  interchange  of  thought, 
Goldsmith  suggested  to  him  the  story  of  Ugolino,  as  a subject 
for  his  pencil.  The  painting  founded  on  it  remains  a memento 
of  their  friendship. 

On  the  4th  of  August  we  find  them  together  at  Vauxhall;  at 
that  time  a place  in  high  vogue,  and  which  had  once  been  to 
Goldsmith  a scene  of  Oriental  splendor  and  delight.  We  have, 
in  fact,  in  the  “ Citizen  of  the  World,”  a picture  of  it  as  it  had 
struck  him  in  former  years  and  in  his  happier  moods.  “Upon 
entering  the  gardens,”  says  the  Chinese  philosopher,  “ I found 
every  sense  occupied  with  more  than  expected  pleasure ; the 
lights  everywhere  glimmering  through  the  scarcely-moving 
trees;  the  full-bodied  concert  bursting  on  the  stillness  of  the 
night;  the  natural  concert  of  the  birds  in  the  more  retired 
part  of  the  grove,  vying  with  that  which  was  formed  by  art ; 
the  company  gayly  dressed,  looking  satisfaction,  and  the  tables 
_ spread  with  various  delicacies,  all  conspired  to  fill  my  imagin- 
ation with  the  visionary  happiness  of  the  Arabian  lawgiver, 
and  lifted  me  into  an  ecstasy  of  admiration.”* 

Everything  now,  however,  is  seen  with  different  eyes ; with 
him  it  is  dissipation  without  pleasure ; and  he  finds  it  impos- 
sible any  longer,  by  mingling  in  the  gay  and  giddy  throng  of 
apparently  prosperous  and  happy  beings,  to  escape  from  the 
carking  care  which  is  clinging  to  his  heart. 

His  kind  friend,  Cradock,  came  up  to  town  toward  autumn, 
when  all  the  fashionable  world  was  in  the  country,  to  give  his 
wife  the  benefit  of  a skilful  dentist.  He  took  lodgings  in  Nor- 


* Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  xxi. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


241 


folk  Street,  to  be  in  Goldsmith’s  neighborhood,  and  passed 
most  of  his  mornings  with  him.  “I  found  him,”  he  says, 
“much  altered  and  at  times  very  low.  He  wished  me  to  look 
over  and  revise  some  of  his  works ; but,  with  a select  friend  or 
two,  I was  more  pressing  that  he  should  publish  by  subscription 
his  two  celebrated  poems  of  the  ‘ Traveler’  and  the  ‘ Deserted 
Village,’  with  notes.”  The  idea  of  Cradock  was,  that  the  sub- 
scription would  enable  wealthy  persons,  favorable  to  Gold- 
smith, to  contribute  to  his  pecuniary  relief  without  wounding 
his  pride.  “Goldsmith,”  said  he,  “readily  gave  up  to  me  his 
private  copies,  and  said,  ‘Pray  do  what  you  please  with  them.’ 
But  while  he  sat  near  me,  he  rather  submitted  to  than  encour- 
aged my  zealous  proceedings.” 

‘ ‘ I one  morning  called  upon  him,  however,  and  found  him 
infinitely  better  than  I had  expected ; and,  in  a kind  of  exulting 
style,  he  exclaimed,  ‘Here  are  some  of  the  best  of  my  prose 
writings ; I have  been  hard  at  work  since  midnight , and  I desire 
you  to  examine  them.’  ‘ These,’  said  I,  ‘are  excellent  indeed.’ 
‘ They  are,  ’ replied  he,  ‘ intended  as  an  introduction  to  a body 
of  arts  and  sciences.’  ” 

Poor  Goldsmith  was,  in  fact,  gathering  together  the  frag- 
ments of  his  shipwreck;  the  notes  and  essays,  and  memoranda 
collected  for  his  dictionary,  and  proposed  to  found  on  them  a 
work  in  two  volumes,  to  be  entitled  “A  Survey  of  Experi- 
mental Philosophy.” 

The  plan  of  the  subscription  came  to  nothing,  and  the  pro- 
jected survey  never  was  executed.  The  head  might  yet  devise, 
but  the  heart  was  failing  him ; his  talent  at  hoping,  which  gave 
him  buoyancy  to  carry  out  his  enterprises,  was  almost  at  an 
end. 

Cradock’s  farewell  scene  with  him  is  told  in  a simple  but 
touching  manner. 

“The  day  before  I was  to  set  out  for  Leicestershire,  I insisted 
upon  his  dining  with  us.  He  replied,  ‘ I will,  but  on  one  con- 
dition, that  you  will  not  ask  me  to  eat  anything.’  ‘ Nay,’  said 
I,  ‘ this  answer  is  absolutely  unkind,  for  I had  hoped,  as  we  are 
supplied  from  the  Crown  and  Anchor,  that  you  would  have 
named  something  you  might  have  relished.’  ‘Well,’  was  the 
reply,  1 if  you  will  but  explain  it  to  Mrs.  Cradock,  I will  cer- 
tainly wait  upon  you.’ 

“ The  doctor  found,  as  usual,  at  my  apartments,  newspapers 
and  pamphlets,  and  with  a pen  and  ink  he  amused  himself  as 
well  as  he  could.  I had  ordered  from  the  tavern  some  fish,  a 


242 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


roasted  joint  of  lamb,  and  a tart;  and  the  doctor  either  sat 
down  or  walked  about  just  as  lie  pleased.  After  dinner  betook 
some  wine  with  biscuits;  but  I was  obliged  soon  to  leave  him 
for  a while,  as  I had  matters  to  settle  prior  to  my  next  day’s 
journey.  On  my  return  coffee  was  ready,  and  the  doctor  ap- 
peared more  cheerful  (for  Mrs.  Cradock  was  always  rather  a 
favorite  with  him),  and  in  the  evening  he  endeavored  to  talk 
and  remark  as  usual,  but  all  was  forced.  He  stayed  till  mid- 
night, and  I insisted  on  seeing  him  safe  home,  and  we  most 
cordially  shook  hands  at  the  Temple  gate.”  Cradock  little 
thought  that  this  was  to  be  their  final  parting.  He  looked 
back  to  it  with  mournful  recollections  in  after  years,  and 
lamented  that  he  had  not  remained  longer  in  town  at  every 
inconvenience,  to  solace  the  poor  broken-spirited  poet. 

The  latter  continued  in  town  all  the  autumn.  At  the  open- 
ing of  the  Opera  House,  on  the  20th  of  November,  Mrs.  Yates, 
an  actress  whom  he  held  in  great  esteem,  delivered  a poetical 
exordium  of  his  composition.  Beauclerc,  in  a letter  to  Lord 
Charlemont,  pronounced  it  very  good,  and  predicted  that  it 
would  soon  be  in  all  the  papers.  It  does  not  appear,  however, 
fco  have  been  ever  published.  In  his  fitful  state  of  mind  Gold- 
smith may  have  taken  no  care  about  it,  and  thus  it  has  been 
lost  to  the  world,  although  it  was  received  with  great  applause 
by  a crowded  and  brilliant  audience. 

A gleam  of  sunshine  breaks  through  the  gloom  that  was 
gathering  over  the  poet.  Toward  the  end  of  the  year  he  re- 
ceives another  Christmas  invitation  to  Barton.  A country 
Christmas ! with  all  the  cordiality  of  the  fireside  circle,  and  the 
joyous  revelry  of  the  oaken  hall — what  a contrast  to  the  lone- 
liness of  a bachelor’s  chambers  in  the  Temple ! It  is  not  to  be 
resisted.  But  how  is  poor  Goldsmith  to  raise  the  ways  and 
means?  His  purse  is  empty;  his  booksellers  are  already  in  ad- 
vance to  him.  As  a last  resource,  he  applies  to  Garrick.  Their 
mutual  intimacy  at  Barton  may  have  suggested  him  as  an  al- 
ternative. The  old  loan  of  forty  pounds  has  never  been  paid ; 
and  Newbery’s  note,  pledged  as  a security,  has  never  been 
taken  up.  An  additional  loan  of  sixty  pounds  is  now  asked 
for,  thus  increasing  the  loan  to  one  hundred;  to  insure  the 
payment,  he  now  offers,  besides  Newbery’s  note,  the  transfer 
of  the  comedy  of  the  Good-Natured  Man  to  Drury  Lane,  with 
such  alterations  as  Garrick  may  suggest.  Garrick,  in  reply, 
evades  the  offer  of  the  altered  comedy,  alludes  significantly  to 
a new  one  which  Goldsmith  had  talked  of  writing  for  him. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  243 

and  offers  to  furnish  the  money  required  on  his  own  accept- 
ance. 

The  reply  of  G oldsmith  bespeaks  a heart  brimful  of  gratitude 
and  overflowing  with  fond  anticipations  of  Barton  and  the 
smiles  of  its  fair  residents.  “ My  dear  friend,”  writes  he,  “I 
thank  you.  I wish  I could  do  something  to  serve  you.  I shall 
have  a comedy  for  you  in  a season,  or  two  at  farthest,  that  I 
believe  will  be  worth  your  acceptance,  for  I fancy  I will  make 
it  a fine  thing.  You  shall  have  the  refusal.  ...  I will  draw 
upon  you  one  month  after  date  for  sixty  pounds,  and  your  ac- 
ceptance will  be  ready  money,  part  of  which  I want  to  go  down 
to  Barton  with.  May  God  preserve  my  honest  little  man,  for 
he  has  my  heart.  Ever, 

“ Oliver  Goldsmith.” 

And  having  thus  scrambled  together  a little  pocket  money, 
by  hard  contrivance,  poor  Goldsmith  turns  his  back  upon  care 
and  trouble,  and  Temple  quarters,  to  forget  for  a time  his  des- 
olate bachelorhood  in  the  family  circle  and  a Christmas  fireside 
at  Barton. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

A RETURN  TO  DRUDGERY— FORCED  GAYETY — RETREAT  TO  THE 
COUNTRY — THE  POEM  OF  RETALIATION — PORTRAIT  OF  GARRICK 
—OF  GOLDSMITH— OF  REYNOLDS— ILLNESS  OF  THE  POET — HIS 
DEATH— GRIEF  OF  HIS  FRIENDS — A LAST  WORD  RESPECTING 
THE  JESSAMY  BRIDE. 

The  Barton  festivities  are  over;  Christmas,  with  all  its 
home-felt  revelry  of  the  heart,  has  passed  like  a dream ; the 
Jessamy  Bride  has  beamed  her  last  smile  upon  the  poor  poet, 
and  the  early  part  of  1774  finds  him  in  his  now  dreary  bachelor 
abode  in  the  Temple,  toiling  fitfully  and  hopelessly  at  a multi- 
plicity of  tasks.  His  “ Animated  Nature,”  so  long  delayed,  so 
often  interrupted,  is  at  length  announced  for  publication, 
though  it  has  yet  to  receive  a few  finishing  touches.  He  is 
preparing  a third  “ History  of  England,”  to  be  compressed  and 
condensed  in  one  volume,  for  the  use  of  schools.  He  is  revis- 
ing his  “ Inquiry  into  Polite  Learning,”  for  which  he  receives 
the  pittance  of  five  guineas,  much  needed  in  his  present  scanti- 


244 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


ness  of  purse;  he  is  arranging  his  “ Survey  of  Experimental 
Philosophy,”  and  he  is  translating  the  “ Comic  Romance  of 
Scarron.”  Such  is  a part  of  the  various  labors  of  a drudging, 
depressing  kind,  by  which  his  head  is  made  weary  and  his 
heart  faint.  “ If  there  is  a mental  drudgery,”  says  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  “which  lowrers  the  spirits  and  lacerates  the  nerves,  like 
the  toil  of  a slave,  it  is  that  which  is  exacted  by  literary  com- 
position, when  the  heart  is  not  in  unison  with  the  work  upon 
which  the  head  is  employed.  Add  to  the  unhappy  author’s 
task  sickness,  sorrow,  or  the  pressure  of  unfavorable  circum- 
stances, and  the  labor  of  the  bondsman  becomes  light  in  com- 
parison.” Goldsmith  again  makes  an  effort  to  rally  his  spirits 
by  going  into  gay  society.  “Our  club,”  writes  Beauclerc  to 
Charlemont,  on  the  12th  of  February,  “has  dwindled  away  to 
nothing.  Sir  Joshua  and  Goldsmith  have  got  into  such  a 
round  of  pleasures  that  they  have  no  time.”  This  shows  how 
little  Beauclerc  was  the  companion  of  the  poet’s  mind,  or  could 
judge  of  him  below  the  surface.  Reynolds,  the  kind  participator 
in  joyless  dissipation,  could  have  told  a different  story  of  his 
companion’s  heart-sick  gayety. 

In  this  forced  mood  Goldsmith  gave  entertainments  in  his 
chambers  in  the  Temple;  the  last  of  which  was  a dinner  to 
Johnson,  Reynolds,  and  others  of  his  intimates,  who  partook 
with  sorrow  and  reluctance  of  his  imprudent  hospitality.  The 
first  course  vexed  them  by  its  needless  profusion.  When  a 
second,  equally  extravagant,  was  served  up,  Johnson  and  Rey- 
nolds declined  to  partake  of  it ; the  rest  of  the  company,  under- 
standing their  motives,  followed  their  example,  and  the  dishes 
went  from  the  table  untasted.  Goldsmith  felt  sensibly  this 
silent  and  well-intended  rebuke. 

The  gayeties  of  society,  however,  cannot  medicine  for  any 
length  of  time  a mind  diseased.  Wearied  by  the  distractions 
and  harassed  by  the  expenses  of  a town  life,  which  he  had  not 
the  discretion  to  regulate,  Goldsmith  took  the  resolution,  too 
tardily  adopted,  of  retiring  to  the  serene  quiet  and  cheap  and 
healthful  pleasures  of  the  country,  and  of  passing  only  two 
months  of  the  year  in  London.  He  accordingly  made  arrange- 
ments to  sell  his  right  in  the  Temple  chambers,  and  in  the 
month  of  March  retired  to  his  country  quarters  at  Hyde,  there 
to  devote  himself  to  toil.  At  this  dispirited  juncture  when  in- 
spiration seemed  to  be  at  an  end,  and  the  poetic  fire  extin- 
guished, a spark  fell  on  his  combustible  imagination  and  set  in 
a blaze. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


245 

He  belonged  to  a temporary  association  of  men  of  talent, 
some  of  them  members  of  the  Literary  Club,  who  dined  to- 
gether occasionally  at  the  St.  James’  Coffee-house.  At  these 
dinners,  as  usual,  he  was  one  of  the  last  to  arrive.  On  one  oc- 
casion, when  he  was  more  dilatory  than  usual,  a whim  seized 
the  company  to  write  epitaphs  on  him,  as  ‘ ‘ The  late  Dr.  Gold- 
smith, ” and  several  were  thrown  off  in  a playful  vein,  hitting 
off  his  peculiarities.  The  only  one  extant  was  written  by 
Garrick,  and  has  been  preserved,  very  probably,  by  its  pun- 
gency : 

“ Here  lies  poor  Goldsmith,  for  shortness  called  Noll, 

Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  but  talked  like  poor  poll.” 


Goldsmith  did  not  relish  the  sarcasm,  especially  as  coming 
from  such  a quarter.  He  was  not  very  ready  at  repartee ; but 
he  took  his  time,  and  in  the  interval  of  his  various  tasks, 
concocted  a series  of  epigrammatic  sketches,  under  the  title  of 
Retaliation,  in  which  the  characters  of  his  distinguished  inti- 
mates were  admirably  hit  off,  with  a mixture  of  generous 
praise  and  good-humored  raillery.  In  fact  the  poem  for  its 
graphic  truth;  its  nice  discrimination;  its  terse  good  sense, 
and  its  shrewd  knowledge  of  the  world,  must  have  electrified 
the  club  almost  as  much  as  the  first  appearance  of  The  Travel- 
ler, and  let  them  still  deeper  into  the  character  and  talents  of 
the  man  they  had  been  accustomed  to  consider  as  their  butt. 
Retaliation,  in  a word,  closed  his  accounts  with  the  club,  and 
balanced  all  his  previous  deficiencies. 

The  portrait  of  David  Garrick  is  one  of  the  most  elaborate  in 
the  poem.  When  the  poet  came  to  touch  it  off,  he  had  some 
lurking  piques  to  gratify,  which  the  recent  attack  had  re- 
vived. He  may  have  forgotten  David’s  cavalier  treatment  of 
him  in  the  early  days  of  his  comparative  obscurity ; he  may 
have  forgiven  his  refusal  of  his  plays ; but  Garrick  had  been 
capricious  in  his  conduct  in  the  times  of  their  recent  inter- ! 
course;  sometimes  treating  him  with  gross  familiarity,  at 
other  times  affecting  dignity  and  reserve,  and  assuming  airs 
of  superiority ; frequently  he  had  been  facetious  and  witty  in 
company  at  his  expense,  and  lastly  he  had  been  guilty  of  the 
couplet  just  quoted.  Goldsmith,  therefore,  touched  off  the 
lights  and  shadows  of  his  character  with  a free  hand,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  gave  a side  hit  at  his  old  rival,  Kelly,  and  his 
critical  persecutor,  Kenrick,  in  making  them  sycophantic 
satellites  of  the  actor.  Goldsmith,  however,  was  void  of  gall, 


246 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


even  in  his  revenge,  and  his  very  satire  was  more  humorous 
than  caustic : 


“ Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  him  who  can, 

An  abridgment  of  all  that  wras  pleasant  in  man; 

As  an  actor,  confess’d  without  rival  to  shine; 

As  a wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line: 

Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart, 

The  man  had  his  failings,  a dupe  to  his  art. 

Like  an  ill -judging  beauty,  his  colors  he  spread, 

And  beplaster’d  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 

On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting; 

’Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was  acting. 

With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 

He  turn’d  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a day: 

Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick: 

He  cast  off  his  friends  as  a huntsman  his  pack, 

For  he  knew,  when  he  pleased,  he  could  whistle  them  back. 

Of  praise  a mere  glutton,  he  swallow’d  what  came, 

And  the  puff  of  a dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame; 

Till  his  relish,  grown  callous  almost  to  disease, 

Who  pepper’d  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 

But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind, 

If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 

YeKenricks,  ye  Kellys,  and  Woodfalls  so  grave, 

What  a commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and  you  gavel 
How  did  Grub  Street  reecho  the  shouts  that  you  raised, 

While  he  was  be-Rosciused  and  you  were  be*praisedl 
But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies, 

To  act  as  an  angel  and  mix  with  the  skies: 

Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill , 

Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will ; 

Old  Shakespeare  receive  him  with  praise  and  with  love, 

And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above.” 

This  portion  of  Eetaliation  soon  brought  a retort  from 
Garrick,  which  we  insert,  as  giving  something  of  a likeness  of 
Goldsmith,  though  in  broad  caricature : 

“ Here,  Hermes,  says  Jove,  who  with  nectar  was  mellow, 

Go  fetch  me  some  clay — I will  make  an  odd  fellow: 

Right  and  wrong  shall  be  jumbled,  much  gold  and  some  dross, 

Without  cause  be  he  pleased,  without  cause  be  he  cross; 

Be  sure,  as  I work,  to  throw  in  contradictions, 

A great  love  of  truth,  yet  a mind  turn’d  to  fictions; 

Now  mix  these  ingredients,  wrhich,  w^arm’d  in  the  baking 
Turn’d  to  learning  and  gaming,  religion,  and  ralcing. 

With  the  love  of  a wrench,  let  his  writings  be  chaste; 

Tip  his  tongue  with  strange  matters,  his  lips  with  fine  taste; 

That  the  rake  and  the  poet,  o’er  all  may  prevail, 

Set  fire  to  the  head  and  set  fire  to  the  tail ; 

For  the  joy  of  each  sex  on  the  w^orld  I’ll  bestow  it, 

This  scholar,  rake,  Christian,  dupe,  gamester,  and  poet. 

Though  a mixture  so  odd,  he  shall  merit  great  fame, 

And  among  brother  mortals  be  Goldsmith  his  name; 

When  on  earth  this  strange  meteor  no  more  shall  appear. 

You,  Hermes,  shall  fetch  him,  to  make  us  sport  here.” 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


247 


The  charge  of  raking,  so  repeatedly  advanced  in  the  fore- 
going lines,  must  he  considered  a sportive  one,  founded  per- 
haps, on  an  incident  or  two  within  Garrick’s  knowledge,  but 
not  borne  out  by  the  course  of  Goldsmith’s  life.  He  seems  to 
have  had  a tender  sentiment  for  the  sex,  but  perfectly  free 
from  libertinism.  Neither  was  he  an  habitual  gamester.  The 
strictest  scrutiny  has  detected  no  settled  vice  of  the  kind.  He 
was  fond  of  a game  of  cards,  but  an  unskilful  and  careless 
player.  Cards  in  those  days  were  universally  introduced  int  > 
society.  High  play  was,  in  fact,  a fashionable  amusement,  as 
at  one  time  was  deep  drinking ; and  a man  might  occasionally 
lose  large  sums,  and  be  beguiled  into  deep  potations,  without 
incurring  the  character  of  a gamester  or  a drunkard.  Poor 
Goldsmith,  on  his  advent  into  high  society,  assumed  fine 
notions  with  fine  clothes ; he  was  thrown  occasionally  among 
high  players,  men  of  fortune  who  could  sport  their  cool 
hundreds  as  carelessly  as  his  early  comrades  at  Ballymahon 
could  their  half-crowns.  Being  at  all  times  magnificent  in 
money  matters,  he  may  have  played  with  them  in  their  own 
way,  without  considering  that  what  was  sport  to  them  to  him 
was  ruin.  Indeed  part  of  his  financial  embarrassments  may 
have  arisen  from  losses  of  the  kind,  incurred  inadvertently, 
not  in  the  indulgence  of  a habit.  u I do  not  believe  Goldsmith 
to  have  deserved  the  name  of  gamester,”  said  one  of  his  con- 
temporaries ; “ he  liked  cards  very  well,  as  other  people  do, 
and  lost  and  won  occasionally ; but  as  far  as  I saw  or  heard, 
and  I had  many  opportunities  of  hearing,  never  any  consider- 
able  sum.  If  he  gamed  with  any  one,  it  was  probably  with 
Beauclerc,  but  I do  not  know  that  such  was  the  case.” 
Retaliation,  as  we  have  already  observed,  was  thrown  off  in 
parts,  at  intervals,  and  was  never  completed.  Some  charac- 
ters, originally  intended  to  be  introduced,  remained  unat- 
tempted; others  were  but  partially  sketched — such  was  the 
one  of  Reynolds,  the  friend  of  his  heart,  and  which  he 
commenced  with  a felicity  which  makes  us  regret  that  it 
should  remain  unfinished. 


“ Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and  to  tell  you  my  mind, 

He  has  not  left  a wiser  or  better  behind. 

His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand ; 

His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland; 

Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 

His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 

To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 

When  they  judged  without  skill  he  was  still  hard  of  hearing: 


248 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and  stuff, 
lie  shifted  his  trumpet  and  only  took  snuff. 

By  ilatlery  unspoiled  ” 

The  friendly  portrait  stood  unfinished  on  the  easel ; the  hand 
of  the  artist  had  failed ! An  access  of  a local  complaint,  under 
which  he  had  suffered  for  some  time  past,  added  to  a general 
prostration  of  health,  brought  Goldsmith  back  to  town  before 
he  had  well  settled  himself  in  the  country.  The  local  complaint 
subsided,  but  was  followed  by  a low  nervous  fever.  He  was 
not  aware  of  his  critical  situation,  and  intended  to  be  at  the 1 
club  on  the  25th  of  March,  on  which  occasion  Charles  Fox,  Sir 
Charles  Bunbury  (one  of  the  Horneck  connection),  and  two 
other  new  members  were  to  be  present.  In  the  afternoon,  how 
ever,  he  felt  so  unwell  as  to  take  to  his  bed,  and  his  symptoms 
soon  acquired  sufficient  force  to  keep  him  there.  His  malady 
fluctuated  for  several  days,  and  hopes  were  entertained  of  his 
recovery,  but  they  proved  fallacious.  He  had  skilful  medical 
aid  and  faithful  nursing,  but  he  would  not  follow  the  advice  of 
his  physicians,  and  persisted  in  the  use  of  James’  powders, 
which  he  had  once  found  beneficial,  but  which  were  now  inju- 
rious to  him.  His  appetite  was  gone,  his  strength  failed  him, 
but  his  mind  remained  clear,  and  was  perhaps  too  active  for  his 
frame.  Anxieties  and  disappointments  which  had  previously 
sapped  his  constitution,  doubtless  aggravated  his  present  com- 
plaint and  rendered  him  sleepless.  In  reply  to  an  inquiry  of 
his  physician,  he  acknowledged  that  his  mind  was  ill  at  ease. 
This  was  his  last  reply ; he  was  too  weak  to  talk,  and  in  gen- 
eral took  no  notice  of  what  was  said  to  him.  He  sank  at  last 
into  a deep  sleep,  and  it  was  hoped  a favorable  crisis  had  ar- 
rived. He  awoke,  however,  in  strong  convulsions,  which  con- 
tinued without  intermission  until  he  expired,  on  the  fourth  of 
April,  at  five  o’clock  in  the  morning ; being  in  the  forty-sixth 
year  of  his  age. 

His  death  was  a shock  to  the  literary  world,  and  a deep  af- 
fliction to  a wide  circle  of  intimates  and  friends ; for  with  all 
his  foibles  and  peculiarities,  he  was  fully  as  much  beloved  as  he 
was  admired.  Burke,  on  hearing  the  news,  burst  into  tears. 
Sir  Joshua  Beynolds  threw  by  his  pencil  for  the  day,  and 
grieved  more  than  he  had  done  in  times  of  great  family  distress. 
“I  was  abroad  at  the  time  of  his  death,”  writes  Dr.  M’Donnell, 
the  youth  whom  when  in  distress  he  had  employed  as  an 
amanuensis,  4 ‘and  I wept  bitterly  when  the  intelligence  first 
reached  me.  A blank  came  over  my  heart  as  if  I had  lost  one 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH \ 


249 


of  my  nearest  relatives,  and  was  followed  for  some  days  by  a 
feeling  of  despondency.”  Johnson  felt  the  blow  deeply  and 
gloomily.  In  writing  some  time  afterward  to  Boswell,  he  ob- 
served, “Of  poor  Dr.  Goldsmith  there  is  little  to  be  told  more 
than  the  papers  have  made  public.  He  died  of  a fever,  made5 
I am  afraid,  more  violent  by  uneasiness  of  mind.  His  debts 
began  to  be  heavy,  and  all  his  resources  were  exhausted.  Sir 
Joshua  is  of  opinion  that  he  owed  no  less  than  two  thousand 
pounds.  Was  ever  poet  so  trusted  before?” 

Among  his  debts  were  seventy-nine  pounds  due  to  his  tailor, 
Mr.  William  Filby,  from  whom  he  had  received  a new  suit  but 
a few  days  before  his  death.  “My  father,”  said  the  younger 
Filby,  “though  a loser  to  that  amount,  attributed  no  blame  to 
Goldsmith;  he  had  been  a good  customer,  and  had  he  lived 
would  have  paid  every  farthing.”  Others  of  his  tradespeople 
evinced  the  same  confidence  in  his  integrity,  notwithstanding 
his  heedlessness.  Two  sister  milliners  in  Temple  Lane,  who 
had  been  accustomed  to  deal  with  him,  were  concerned,  when 
told,  some  time  before  his  death,  of  his  pecuniary  embarrass- 
ments. “ Oh,  sir,”  said  they  to  Mr.  Cradock,  “sooner  persuade 
him  to  let  us  work  for  him  gratis  than  apply  to  any  other;  we 
are  sure  he  will  pay  us  when  he  can.” 

On  the  stairs  of  his  apartment  there  was  the  lamentation  of 
the  old  and  infirm,  and  the  sobbing  of  women ; poor  objects  of 
his  charity  to  whom  he  had  never  turned  a deaf  ear,  even  when 
’ struggling  himself  with  poverty. 

But  there  was  one  mourner,  whose  enthusiasm  for  his  mem- 
ory, could  it  have  been  foreseen,  might  have  soothed  the  bitter- 
ness of  death.  After  the  coffin  had  been  screwed  down,  a lock 
of  his  hair  was  requested  for  a lady,  a particular  friend,  who 
wished  to  preserve  it  as  a remembrance.  It  was  the  beautiful 
Mary  Horneck — the  Jessamy  Bride.  The  coffin  was  opened 
again,  and  a lock  of  hair  cut  off ; which  she  treasured  to  her 
dying  day.  Poor  Goldsmith ! could  he  have  foreseen  that  such 
a memorial  of  him  was  to  be  thus  cherished. 

One  word  more  concerning  this  lady,  to  whom  we  have  so 
often  ventured  to  advert.  She  survived  almost  to  the  present 
day.  Hazlitt  met  her  at  Northcote’s  painting-room,  about 
twenty  years  since,  as  Mrs.  Gwyn,  the  widow  of  a General 
Gwyn  of  the  army.  She  was  at  that  time  upward  of  seventy 
years  of  age.  Still,  he  said,  she  was  beautiful,  beautiful  even 
in  years.  After  she  was  gone,  Hazlitt  remarked  how  handsome 
she  still  was.  “I  do  not  know,”  said  Northcote,  “why  she 


250 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH . 


is  so  kind  as  to  come  and  see  me,  except  that  I am  the  last  link 
in  the  chain  that  connects  her  with  all  those  she  most  esteemed 
when  young — Johnson,  Reynolds,  Goldsmith — and  remind  her 
of  the  most  delightful  period  of  her  life.”  “Not  only  so,” 
observed  Hazlitt,  4 4 but  you  remember  what  she  was  at  twenty ; 
and  you  thus  bring  back  to  her  the  triumphs  of  her  youth  — 
that  pride  of  beauty,  which  must  be  the  more  fondly  cherished 
as  it  has  no  external  vouchers,  and  lives  chiefly  in  the  bosom 
of  its  once  lovely  possessor.  In  her,  however,  the  Graces  had 
triumphed  over  time ; she  was  one  of  Ninon  de  l’Enclos’  people, 
of  the  last  of  the  immortals.  I could  almost  fancy  the  shade  of 
Goldsmith  in  the  room,  looking  round  with  complacency.” 

The  Jessamy  Bride  survived  her  sister  upward  of  forty  years, 
and  died  in  1840,  within  a few  days  of  completing  her  eighty- 
eighth  year.  4 4 She  had  gone  through  all  the  stages  of  life,” 
says  Northcotc,  4 4 and  had  lent  a grace  to  each.”  However 
gayly  she  may  have  sported  with  the  half-concealed  admiration 
of  the  poor  awkward  poet  in  the  heydey  of  her  youth  and 
beauty,  and  however  much  it  may  have  been  made  a subject 
of  teasing  by  her  youthful  companions,  she  evidently  prided 
herself  in  after  years  upon  having  been  an  object  of  his  affec- 
tionate regard ; it  certainly  rendered  her  interesting  through- 
out life  in  the  eyes  of  his  admirers,  and  has  hung  a poetical 
wreath  above  her  grave. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE  FUNERAL — THE  MONUMENT— THE  EPITAPH — CONCLUDING 

REMARKS. 

In  the  warm  feeling  of  the  moment,  while  the  remains  of  the 
poet  were  scarce  cold,  it  was  determined  by  his  friends  to 
honor  them  by  a public  funeral,  and  a tomb  in  Westminster 
Abbey.  His  very  pall-bearers  were  designated:  Lord  Shel- 
burne, Lord  Lowth,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds;  the  Hon.  Mr. 
Beauclerc,  Mr.  Burke,  and  David  Garrick.  This  feeling  cooled 
down,  however,  when  it  was  discovered  that  he  died  in  debt, 
and  had  not  left  wherewithal  to  pay  for  such  expensive  obse- 
quies. Five  days  after  his  death,  therefore,  at  five  o’clock  of 
Saturday  evening,  the  9th  of  April,  he  was  privately  interred 
in  the  burying-ground  of  the  Temple  Church,  a few  persons 
attending  as  mourners,  among  whom  we  do  not  find  specified 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


251 


any  of  his  peculiar  and  distinguished  friends.  The  chief 
mourner  was  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds’s  nephew,  Palmer,  after 
ward  Dean  of  Cashel.  One  person,  however,  from  whom  it 
was  but  little  to  be  expected,  attended  the  funeral  and  evinced 
real  sorrow  on  the  occasion.  This  was  Hugh  Kelly,  once  the 
dramatic  rival  of  the  deceased,  and  often,  it  is  said,  his  anony- 
mous assailant  in  the  newspapers.  If  he  had  really  been  guilty 
of  this  basest  of  literary  offences,  he  was  punished  by  the 
stings  of  remorse,  for  we  are  told  that  he  shed  bitter  tears 
over  the  grave  of  the  man  he  had  injured.  His  tardy  atone- 
ment only  provoked  the  lash  of  some  unknown  satirist,  as  the 
following  lines  will  show : 

u Hence  Kelly,  who  years,  without  honor  or  shame, 

Had  been  sticking  his  bodkin  in  Oliver’s  fame, 

Who  thought,  like  the  Tartar,  by  this  to  inherit 
His  genius,  his  learning,  simplicity,  spirit; 

Now  sets  every  feature  to  weep  o’er  his  fate, 

And  acts  as  a mourner  to  blubber  in  state.” 

One  base  wretch  deserves  to  be  mentioned,  the  reptile  Ken- 
rick,  who,  after  having  repeatedly  slandered  Goldsmith,  while 
living,  had  the  audacity  to  insult  his  memory  when  dead.  The 
following  distich  is  sufficient  to  show  his  malignity,  and  to 
hold  him  up  to  execration : 

“ By  his  own  art,  who  justly  died, 

A blund’ring,  artless  suicide : 

Share,  earthworms,  share,  since  now  he’s  dead, 

His  megrim,  maggot-bitten  head.” 

This  scurrilous  epitaph  produced  a burst  of  public  indigna- 
tion that  awed  for  a time  even  the  infamous  Kenrick  into 
silence.  On  the  other  hand,  the  press  teemed  with  tributes  in 
verse  and  prose  to  the  memory  of  the  deceased ; all  evincing 
the  mingled  feeling  of  admiration  for  the  author  and  affection 
for  the  man. 

Not  long  after  his  death  the  Literary  Club  set  on  foot  a sub 
scription,  and  raised  a fund  to  erect  a monument  to  his  mem 
ory  in  Westminster  .Abbey.  It  was  executed  by  Nollekins, 
and  consisted  simply  of  a bust  of  the  poet  in  profile,  in  high 
relief,  in  a medallion,  and  was  placed  in  the  area  of  a pointed 
arch,  over  the  south  door  in  Poets’  Corner,  between  the  monu- 
ments of  Gay  and  the  Duke  of  Argyle.  Johnson  furnished  a 
Latin  epitaph,  which  was  read  at  the  table  of  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds, where  several  members  of  the  club  and  other  friends  of 
the  deceased  were  present.  Though  considered  by  them  a 


252 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


masterly  composition,  they  thought  the  literary  character  of 
the  poet  not  defined  with  sufficient  exactness,  and  they  pre- 
ferred that  the  epitaph  should  be  in  English  rather  than  Latin, 
as  “the  memory  of  so  eminent  an  English  writer  ought  to  be 
perpetuated  in  the  language  to  which  his  works  were  likely  to 
be  so  lasting  an  ornament/' 

These  objections  were  reduced  to  writing,  to  be  respectfully 
submitted  to  Johnson,  but  such  was  the  awe  entertained  of  his 
frown,  that  every  one  shrank  from  putting  his  name  first  to 
the  instrument ; whereupon  their  names  were  written  about  in 
a circle,  making  what  mutinous  sailors  call  a Round  Robin. 
Johnson  received  it  half  graciously,  half  grimly.  “ He  was 
willing/'  he  said,  “to  modify  the  sense  of  the  epitaph  in  any 
manner  which  the  gentlemen  pleased;  but  he  never  would  con- 
sent to  disgrace  the  walls  of  Westminster  Abbey  with  an  English 
inscription."  Seeing  the  names  of  Dr.  Wharton  and  Edmund 
Burke  among  the  signers,  “he  wondered/'  he  said,  “ that  Joe 
Wharton,  a scholar  by  profession,  should  be  such  a fool ; and 
should  have  thought  that  Mimd  Burke  would  have  had  more 
sense/'  The  following  is  the  epitaph  as  it  stands  inscribed  on 
a white  marble  tablet  beneath  the  bust : 

“ olivarii  goldsmith. 

Poetfe.  Physici.  Hisroriei. 

Qui  nullum  fere  scribendi  genus 
Xon  tetigit. 

>’ullura  quo!  tetigit  non  ornavit 
Sive  risus  essent  movendi. 

Sive  laerymae. 

Affectuum  potens  ae  lenis  dominator: 

Ingenio  sublimis.  vividus.  versatilis. 

Oratione  grandis.  nitidus.  venustus: 

Hoc  monumento  memoriam  coiuit 
Sodalium  amor. 

Amicorum  fides. 

Lectorum  veneratio. 

yatus  in  Hibernia  Fomiae  Longfordiensis, 

In  loco  cui  nomen  Pallas. 

Not.  xxix.  mdccxxxi.  : 

Eblanae  literis  institutus: 

Obiit  Londini. 

April  iv.  HDccLxxiv.  **  * 


* The  following  translation  is  from  Croker’s  edition  of  Boswell’s  Johnson. 

OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH— 

A Poet,  Naturalist.  and  Historian. 

Who  left  scarcely  any  style  of  writing  untouched, 

And  touched  nothing  that  he  did  not  adorn ; 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


253 


We  shall  not  pretend  to  follow  these  anecdotes  of  the  life  of 
Goldsmith  with  any  critical  dissertation  on  his  writings ; their 
merits  have  long  since  been  fully  discussed,  and  their  station 
in  the  scale  of  literary  merit  permanently  established.  They 
have  outlasted  generations  of  works  of  higher  power  and  wider 
scope,  and  will  continue  to  outlast  succeeding  generations,  for 
they  have  that  magic  charm  of  style  by  which  works  are  em- 
balmed to  perpetuity.  Neither  shall  we  attempt  a regular 
analysis  of  the  character  of  the  poet,  but  will  indulge  in  a few 
desultory  remarks  in  addition  to  those  scattered  throughout 
the  preceding  chapters. 

Never  was  the  trite,  because  sage  apothegm,  that  “ The  child 
is  father  to  the  man, ’’more  fully  verified  than  in  the  case  of 
Goldsmith.  He  is  shy,  awkward,  and  blundering  in  child- 
hood, yet  full  of  sensibility;  he  is  a butt  for  the  jeers  and 
jokes  of  his  companions,  but  apt  to  surprise  and  confound 
them  by  sudden  and  witty  repartees ; he  is  dull  and  stupid  at 
his  tasks,  yet  an  eager  and  intelligent  devourer  of  the  travel- 
ling tales  and  campaigning  stories  of  his  half  military  peda- 
gogue ; he  may  be  a dunce,  but  he  is  already  a rhymer ; and 
his  early  scintillations  of  poetry  awaken  the  expectations  of 
his  friends.  He  seems  from  infancy  to  have  been  compounded 
of  two  natures,  one  bright,  the  other  blundering;  or  to  have 
had  fairy  gifts  laid  in  his  cradle  by  the  4 ‘good  people”  who 
haunted  his  birthplace,  the  old  goblin  mansion  on  the  banks 
of  the  Inny. 

He  carries  with  him  the  wayward  elfin  spirit,  if  we  may  so 
term  it,  throughout  his  career.  His  fairy  gifts  are  of  no  avail 
at  school,  academy,  or  college ; they  unfit  him  for  close  study 


Of  all  the  passions, 

Whether  smiles  were  to  be  moved  or  tears, 

A powerful  yet  gentle  master; 

In  genius,  sublime,  vivid,  versatile, 

In  style,  elevated,  clear,  elegant — 

The  love  of  companions, 

The  fidelity  of  friends, 

And  the  veneration  of  readers, 

Have  by  this  monument  honored  the  memory. 
He  was  born  in  Ireland, 

At  a place  called  Pallas, 

[In  the  parish]  of  Forney,  [and  county]  of  Longford, 
On  the  29th  Nov.,  1731. 

Educated  at  [the  University  of]  Dublin, 

And  died  in  London, 

April  4th,  1774. 


254 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


and  practical  science,  and  render  him  heedless  of  everything 
that  does  not  address  itself  to  his  poetical  imagination  and 
genial  and  festive  feelings ; they  dispose  him  to  break  away 
from  restraint,  to  stroll  about  hedges,  green  lanes,  and  haunted 
streams,  to  revel  with  jovial  companions,  or  to  rove  the 
country  like  a gipsy  in  quest  of  odd  adventures. 

As  if  confiding  in  these  delusive  gifts,  he  takes  no  heed  of 
the  present  nor  care  for  the  future,  lays  no  regular  and  solid 
foundation  of  knowledge,  follows  out  no  plan,  adopts  and  dis- 
cards those  recommended  hy  his  friends,  at  one  time  prepares 
for  the  ministry,  next  turns  to  the  law,  and  then  fixes  upon 
medicine.  He  repairs  to  Edinburgh,  the  great  emporium  of 
medical  science,  but  the  fairy  gifts  accompany  him ; he  idles 
and  frolics  away  his  time  there,  imbibing  only  such  knowledge 
as  is  agreeable  to  him;  makes  an  excursion  to  the  poetical 
regions  of  the  Highlands ; and  having  walked  the  hospitals  for 
the  customary  time,  sets  off  to  ramble  over  the  Continent,  in 
quest  of  novelty  rather  than  knowledge.  His  whole  tour  is  a 
poetical  one.  He  fancies  he  is  playing  the  philosopher  while 
he  is  really  playing  the  poet;  and  though  professedly  he 
attends  lectures  and  visits  foreign  universities,  so  deficient  is 
he  on  his  return,  in  the  studies  for  which  he  set  out,  that  he 
fails  in  an  examination  as  a surgeon’s  mate ; and  while  figur- 
ing as  a doctor  of  medicine,  is  outvied  on  a point  of  practice 
by  his  apothecary.  Baffled  in  every  regular  pursuit,  after 
trying  in  vain  some  of  the  humbler  callings  of  commonplace 
life,  he  is  driven  almost  by  chance  to  the  exercise  of  his  pen, 
and  here  the  fairy  gifts  come  to  his  assistance.  For  a long 
time,  however,  he  seems  unaware  of  the  magic  properties  of 
, that  pen ; he  uses  it  only  as  a makeshift  until  he  can  find  a 
legitimate  means  of  support.  He  is  not  a learned  man,  and 
can  write  but  meagrely  and  at  second-hand  on  learned  sub- 
jects; but  he  has  a quick  convertible  talent  that  seizes  lightly 
on  the  points  of  knowledge  necessary  to  the  illustration  of  a 
theme;  his  writings  for  a time  are  desultory,  the  fruits  of 
what  he  has  seen  and  felt,  or  what  he  has  recently  and  hastily 
read ; but  his  gifted  pen  transmutes  everything  into  gold,  and 
his  own  genial  nature  reflects  its  sunshine  through  his  pages. 

Still  unaware  of  his  powers  he  throws  off  his  writings 
anonymously,  to  go  with  the  writings  of  less  favored  men ; 
and  it  is  a long  time,  and  after  a bitter  struggle  with  poverty 
and  humiliation,  before  he  acquires  confidence  in  his  literary 
talent  as  a means  of  support,  and  begins  to  dream  of  reputation. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


255 


From  this  time  his  pen  is  a wand  of  power  in  his  hand,  and 
he  has  only  to  use  it  discreetly,  to  make  it  competent  to  all  hi? 
wants.  But  discretion  is  not  a part  of  Goldsmith’s  nature; 
and  it  seems  the  property  of  these  fairy  gifts  to  be  accom- 
panied by  moods  and  temperaments  to  render  their  effect 
precarious.  The  heedlessness  of  his  early  days ; his  disposition 
for  social  enjoyment ; his  habit  of  throwing  the  present  on  the 
neck  of  the  future,  still  continue.  His  expenses  forerun  his 
means ; he  incurs  debts  on  the  faith  of  what  his  magic  pen  is 
to  produce,  and  then,  under  the  pressure  of  his  debts,  sacrifices 
its  productions  for  prices  far  below  their  value.  It  is  a 
redeeming  circumstance  in  his  prodigality,  that  it  is  lavished 
oftener  upon  others  than  upon  himself;  he  gives  without 
thought  or  stint,  and  is  the  continual  dupe  of  his  benevolence 
and  his  trustfulness  in  human  nature.  We  may  say  of  him  as 
he  says  of  one  of  his  heroes,  ‘ ‘ He  could  not  stifle  the  natural 
impulse  which  he  had  to  do  good,  but  frequently  borrowed 
money  to  relieve  the  distressed ; and  when  he  knew  not  con- 
veniently where  to  borrow,  he  has  been  observed  to  shed  tears 
as  he  passed  through  the  wretched  suppliants  who  attended 
his  gate.”  . . . 

“ His  simplicity  in  trusting  persons  whom  he  had  no  previous 
reasons  to  place  confidence  in,  seems  to  be  one  of  those  lights 
of  his  character  which,  while  they  impeach  his  understanding, 
do  honor  to  his  benevolence.  The  low  and  the  timid  are  ever 
suspicious ; but  a heart  impressed  with  honorable  sentiments 
expects  from  others  sympathetic  sincerity.”  * 

His  heedlessness  in  pecuniary  matters,  which  had  rendered 
his  life  a struggle  with  poverty  even  in  the  days  of  his  ob* 
scurity,  rendered  his  struggle  still  more  intense  when  his  dairy 
gifts  had  elevated  him  into  the  society  of  the  wealthy  and 
luxurious,  and  imposed  on  his  simple  and  generous  spirit 
fancied  obligations  to  a more  ample  and  bounteous  display. 

“ How  comes  it,”  says  a recent  and  ingenious  critic,  “ that 
in  all  the  miry  paths  of  life  which  he  had  trod,  no  speck  ever 
sullied  the  robe  of  his  modest  and  graceful  muse.  How  amid 
all  that  love  of  inferior  company,  which  never  to  the  last  for- 
sook him,  did  he  keep  his  genius  so  free  from  every  touch  of 
vulgarity?” 

We  answer  that  it  was  owing  to  the  innate  purity  and  good- 
ness of  his  nature ; there  was  nothing  in  it  that  assimilated  to 


* Goldsmith’s  Life  of  Nash. 


256 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


vice  and  vulgarity.  Though  his  circumstances  often  com* 
pelled  him  to  associate  with  the  poor,  they  never  could  betray 
him  into  companionship  with  the  depraved.  His  relish  for 
humor  and  for  the  study  of  character,  as  we  have  before 
observed,  brought  him  often  into  convivial  company  of  a 
vulgar  kind;  but  he  discriminated  between  their  vulgarity 
and  their  amusing  qualities,  or  rather  wrought  from  the  whole 
those  familiar  features  of  life  which  form  the  staple  of  his 
most  popular  writings. 

Much,  too,  of  this  intact  purity  of  heart  may  be  ascribed  to 
the  lessons  of  his  infancy  under  the  paternal  roof;  to  the 
gentle,  benevolent,  elevated,  unworldly  maxims  of  his  father, 
who  “ passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a year,”  infused  a spirit 
into  his  child  which  riches  could  not  deprave  nor  poverty 
degrade.  Much  of  his  boyhood,  too,  had  been  passed  in  the 
household  of  his  uncle,  the  amiable  and  generous  Contarine; 
where  he  talked  of  literature  with  the  good  pastor,  and  prac- 
tised music  with  his  daughter,  and  delighted  them  both  by  his 
juvenile  attempts  at  poetry.  These  early  associations  breathed 
a grace  and  refinement  into  his  mind  and  tuned  it  up,  after 
the  rough  sports  on  the  green,  or  the  f robes  at  the  tavern. 
These  led  him  to  turn  from  the  roaring  glees  of  the  club,  to 
listen  to  the  harp  of  his  cousin  Jane;  and  from  the  rustic 
triumph  of  “ throwing  sledge,”  to  a stroh  with  his  flute  along 
the  pastoral  banks  of  the  Inny. 

The  gentle  spirit  of  his  father  walked  with  him  through  life, 
a pure  and  virtuous  monitor ; and  in  all  the  vicissitudes  of  his 
career  we  find  him  ever  more  chastened  in  mind  bv  the  sweet 
and  holy  recollections  of  the  home  of  his  infancy. 

It  has  been  questioned  whether  he  really  had  any  religious 
feeling.  Those  who  raise  the  question  have  never  considered 
well  his  writings;  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  and  his  pictures  of 
the  Village  Pastor,  present  religion  under  its  most  endearing 
forms,  and  with  a feeling  that  could  only  flow  from  the  deep 
convictions  of  the  heart.  When  his  fair  travebing  companions 
at  Paris  urged  him  to  read  the  Church  Service  on  a Sunday,  he 
rephed  that  “he  was  not  worthy  to  do  it.”  He  had  seen  in 
early  life  the  sacred  offices  performed  by  his  father  and  his 
brother,  with  a solemnity  which  had  sanctified  them  in  his 
memory;  how  could  he  presume  to  undertake  such  functions? 
His  religion  has  been  called  in  question  by  Johnson  and  by 
Boswell;  he  certainly  had  not  the  gloomy  hypochondriacal 
piety  of  the  one,  nor  the  babbling  mouth-piety  of  the  other; 


0 LIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


257 


but  the  spirit  of  Christian  charity  breathed  forth  in  his  writ' 
ings  and  illustrated  in  his  conduct  give  us  reason  to  believe  he 
had  the  indwelling  religion  of  the  soul. 

We  have  made  sufficient  comments  in  the  preceding  chapters 
on  his  conduct  in  elevated  circles  of  literature  and  fashion. 
The  fairy  gifts  which  took  him  there,  were  not  accompanied  by 
the  gifts  and  graces  necessary  to  sustain  him  in  that  artificial 
sphere.  He  can  neither  play  the  learned  sage  with  Johnson, 
nor  the  fine  gentleman  with  Beauclerc,  though  he  has  a mind 
replete  with  wisdom  and  natural  shrewdness,  and  a spirit  free 
from  vulgarity.  The  blunders  of  a fertile  but  hurried  intellect, 
and  the  awkward  display  of  the  student  assuming  the  man  ot 
fashion,  fix  on  him  a character  for  absurdity  and  vanity  which, 
like  the  charge  of  lunacy,  it  is  hard  to  disprove,  however  weak 
the  grounds  of  the  charge  and  strong  the  facts  in  opposition  to 
it. 

In  truth,  he  is  never  truly  in  his  place  in  these  learned  and 
fashionable  circles,  which  talk  and  live  for  display.  It  is  not 
the  kind  of  society  he  craves.  His  heart  yearns  for  domestic 
life ; it  craves  familiar,  confiding  intercourse,  family  firesides, 
the  guileless  and  happy  company  of  children ; these  bring  out 
the  heartiest  and  sweetest  sympathies  of  his  nature. 

“Had  it  been  his  fate,”  says  the  critic  we  have  already 
quoted,  1 1 to  meet  a woman  who  could  have  loved  him,  despite 
his  faults,  and  respected  him  despite  his  foibles,  we  cannot  but 
think  that  his  life  and  his  genius  would  have  been  much  more 
harmonious;  his  desultory  affections  would  have  been  concern 
tred,  his  craving  self-love  appeased,  his  pursuits  more  settled, 
his  character  more  solid.  A nature  like  Goldsmith’s,  so  affec- 
tionate,  so  confiding— so  susceptible  to  simple,  innocent  enjoy- 
ments—so  dependent  on  others  for  the  sunshine  of  existence, 
does  not  flower  if  deprived  of  the  atmosphere  of  home.  ” 

The  cravings  of  his  heart  in  this  respect  are  evident,  we 
think,  throughout  his  career ; and  if  we  have  dwelt  with  more 
signifieancy  than  others,  upon  his  intercourse  with  the  beauti- 
ful Horneck  family,  it  is  because  we  fancied  we  could  detect, 
amid  his  playful  attentions  to  one  of  its  members,  a lurking 
sentiment  of  tenderness,  kept  down  by  conscious  poverty  and 
a humiliating  idea  of  personal  defects.  A hopeless  feeling  of 
this  kind — the  last  a man  would  communicate  to  his  friends — 
might  account  for  much  of  that  fitfulness  of  conduct,  and  that 
gathering  melancholy,  remarked,  but  not  comprehended  by 
his  associates,  during  the  last  year  or  two  of  his  life ; and  may 


258 


OLIVER  Q OLD  SMITH. 


have  been  one  of  the  troubles  of  the  mind  which  aggravated 
his  last  illness,  and  only  terminated  with  his  death. 

We  shall  conclude  these  desultory  remarks  with  a few  which 
have  been  used  by  us  on  a former  occasion.  From  the  general 
tone  of  Goldsmith’s  biography,  it  is  evident  that  his  faults,  at 
the  worst,  were  but  negative,  while  his  merits  were  great  and 
decided.  He  was  no  one’s  enemy  but  his  own ; his  errors,  in 
the  main,  inflicted  evil  on  none  but  himself,  and  were  so 
blended  with  humorous,  and  even  affecting  circumstances,  as 
to  disarm  anger  and  conciliate  kindness.  Where  eminent 
talent  is  united  to  spotless  virtue,  we  are  awed  and  dazzled 
into  admiration,  but  our  admiration  is  apt  to  be  cold  and  rever- 
ential ; while  there  is  something  in  the  harmless  infirmities  of 
a good  and  great,  but  erring  individual,  that  pleads  touchingly 
to  our  nature ; and  we  turn  more  kindly  toward  the  object  of 
our  idolatry,  when  we  find  that,  like  ourselves,  he  is  mortal 
and  is  frail.  The  epithet  so  often  heard,  and  in  such  kindly 
tones,  of  “Poor  Goldsmith,”  speaks  volumes.  Few  who  con- 
sider the  real  compound  of  admirable  and  whimsical  qualities 
which  form  his  character,  would  wish  to  prune  away  its  eccen- 
tricities, trim  its  grotesque  luxuriance,  and  clip  it  down  to  the 
decent  formalities  of  rigid  virtue.  4 4 Let  not  his  frailties  be 
remembered,”  said  Johnson;  4 4 he  was  a very  great  man.” 
But,  for  our  part,  we  rather  say  4 4 Let  them  be  remembered,” 
since  their  tendency  is  to  endear ; and  we  question  whether  he 
himself  would  not  feel  gratified  in  hearing  his  reader,  after 
dwelling  with  admiration  on  the  proofs  of  his  greatness,  close 
the  volume  with  the  kind-hearted  phrase,  so  fondly  and  fami- 
liarly ejaculated,  of  “Poor  Goldsmith.” 


\ 


THE  Em 


MOORISH 

CHRONICLES. 


BY 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


\ 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


CONTENTS. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNAN  GONZALEZ. 

PAGE 

Introduction 7 

CHAPTER  I. 

Installation  of  Fernan  Gonzalez  as  Count  of  Castile.— His  first  campaign  against 
the  Moors. — Victory  of  San  Quirce.— How  the  Count  disposed  of  the  spoils 8 

CHAPTER  H. 

Of  the  sally  from  Burgos  and  surprise  of  the  castle  of  Lara.— Capitulation  of 
the  town. — Visit  to  Alfonso  the  Great,  King  of  Leon 11 

CHAPTER  IH. 

Expedition  against  the  fortress  Mugnon.— Desperate  defence  of  the  Moors. — 
Enterprise  against  Castro  Xeriz 14 


CHAPTER  IV. 

How  the  Count  of  Castile  and  the  King  of  Leon  make  a triumphant  foray  into 
the  Moorish  country. — Capture  of  Salamanca. — Of  the  challenge  brought  by 
the  Herald  and  of  the  Count’s  defiance 15 


CHAPTER  V. 

A night  assault  upon  the  castle  of  Carazo.— The  Moorish  maiden  who  betrayed 
the  garrison 10 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Death  of  Alfonso,  King  of  Leon.— The  Moors  determined  to  strike  a fresh  blow 
at  the  Count,  who  summons  all  Castile  to  his  standard. — Of  his  hunt  in  the 
forest  while  waiting  for  the  enemy,  and  of  the  hermit  that  he  met  with. 19 


CHAPTER  VH. 


Tim  battle  of  the  Ford  of 


4 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  Vm. 

PAGE 

Of  the  message  sent  by  the  Count  to  Sancho  II.,  King  of  Navarre,  and  the  reply. 

— Their  encounter  in  battle 23 

CHAPTER  IX. 

How  the  Count  of  Toulouse  makes  a campaign  against  Castile,  and  how  he  re- 
turns in  his  coffin 27 

CHAPTER  X. 

How  the  Count  went  to  receive  the  hand  of  a Princess,  and  was  thrown  into  a 
dungeon.— Of  the  stranger  that  visited  him  in  his  chains,  and  of  the  appeal 
that  he  made  to  the  Princess  for  his  deliverance 28 

CHAPTER  XI. 

Or  the  meditations  of  the  Princess,  and  their  result. — Her  flight  from  the  prison 
with  the  Count,  and  perils  of  the  escape. — The  nuptials  30 

CHAPTER  XII. 

King  Garcia  confined  in  Burgos  by  the  Count.— The  Princess  intercedes  for  his 
release 34 

CHAPTER  XHI. 

Of  the  expedition  against  the  ancient  city  of  Sylo.— The  unwitting  trespass  of 
the  Count  into  a convent,  and  his  compunction  thereupon 34 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

Of  the  Moorish  host  that  came  up  from  Cordova,  and  how  the  Count  repaired 
to  the  hermitage  of  San  Pedro,  and  prayed  for  success  against  them,  and  re- 
ceived assurance  of  victory  in  a vision.— Battle  of  Hazinas 36 

CHAPTER  XV. 

The  Count  imprisoned  by  the  King  of  Leon. — The  Countess  concerts  his  escape. 
—Leon  and  Castile  united  by  the  marriage  of  the  Prince  Ordono  with  Urraca, 
the  daughter  of  the  Count  by  his  first  wife 40 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

Moorish  incursion  into  Castile. — Battle  of  San  Estevan. — Of  Pascual  Vivas  and 
the  miracle  that  befell  him. — Death  of  Ordono  HI 42 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

King  Sancho  the  Fat.  —Of  the  homage  he  exacted  from  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez, 
and  of  the  strange  bargain  that  he  made  with  him  for  the  purchase  of  his 
horse  and  falcon 46 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Further  of  the  horse  and  falcon  48 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

£he  last  campaign  of  Count  Fernan.— His  death 56 


CONTENTS. 


5 


\ 

CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 

CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

The  parentage  of  Fernando.— Queen  Berenguela. — The  Laras. — Don  Alvar  con- 
ceals the  death  of  King  Henry. — Mission  of  Queen  Berenguela  to  Alfonso  II. 

— She  renounces  the  crown  of  Castile  in  favor  of  her  son  Fernando 55 

CHAPTER  II. 

King  Alfonso  of  Leon  ravages  Castile.— Captivity  of  Don  Alvar.— Death  of  the 
Laras 59 

CHAPTER  III. 

Marriage  of  King  Fernando.— Campaign  against  the  Moors.— Aben  Mohamed, 
King  of  Baeza,  declares  himself  the  vassal  of  King  Fernando. — They  march  to 
Jaen. — Burning  of  the  tower.— Fernando  commences  the  building  of  the 
cathedral  at  Toledo 63 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Assassination  of  Aben  Mohamed.— His  head  carried  as  a present  to  Abullale,  the 
Moorish  King  of  Seville.— Advance  of  the  Christians  into  Andalusia.— Abullale 
purchases  a truce 66 

CHAPTER  V. 

Aben  Hud. — Abullale  purchases  another  year’s  truce.— Fernando  hears  of  the 
death  of  his  father,  the  King  of  Leon,  while  pressing  the  siege  of  Jaen. — He 
becomes  sovereign  of  the  two  kingdoms  of  Leon  and  Castile 68 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Expedition  of  the  Prince  Alonzo  against  the  Moors.— Encamps  on  the  banks  of 
the  Guadalete. — Aben  Hud  marches  out  from  Xerez,  and  gives  battle. — Prowess 
of  Garcia  Perez  de  Vargas.— Flight  and  pursuit  of  the  Moors. — Miracle  of  the 
blessed  Santiago 70 

CHAPTER  VII. 

A bold  attempt  upon  Cordova,  the  seat  of  Moorish  power 75 

CHAPTER  VIH. 

A spy  in  the  Christian  camp. — Death  of  Aben  Hud. — A vital  blow  to  Moslem 
power. — Surrender  of  Cordova  to  King  Fernando 77 

CHAPTER  IX. 

Marriage  of  King  Fernando  to  the  Princess  Juana.— Famine  at  Cordova.— Don 
Alvar  Perez 81 

CHAPTER  X. 

Aben  Alhamar,  founder  of  the  Alhambra  —Fortifies  Granada  and  makes  it  his 
capital. — Attempts  to  surprise  the  castle  of  Martos. — Peril  of  the  fortress. — A 
woman’s  stratagem  to  save  it. — Diego  Perez,  the  Smasher.— Death  of  Count 
Alvar  Perez  de  Castro 83 


6 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

PAGE 

Aben  Hudiel,  the  Moorish  King  of  Murcia,  becomes  the  vassal  of  King  Fernan- 
do.— Aben  Alhamar  seeks  to  drive  the  Christians  out  of  Andalusia. — Fer- 
nando takes  the  field  against  him.— Ravages  of  the  king. — His  last  meeting 
with  the  queen-mother 87 


CHAPTER  XII. 

King  Fernando’s  expedition  to  Andalusia. — Siege  of  Jaen. — Secret  departure  of 
Aben  Alhamar  for  the  Christian  camp. — He  acknowledges  himself  the  vassal 
of  the  king,  who  enters  Jaen  in  triumph 92 

CHAPTER  XIH. 

Axataf,  King  of  Seville,  exasperated  at  the  submission  of  the  King  of  Granada, 
rejects  the  propositions  of  King  Fernando  for  a truce.— The  latter  is  en- 
couraged by  a vision  to  undertake  the  conquest  of  the  city  of  Seville. — Death 
of  Queen  Berenguela. — A diplomatic  marriage 94 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

Investment  of  Seville. — All  Spain  aroused  to  arms. — Surrender  of  Alcala  del  Rio. 

— The  fleet  of  Admiral  Ramon  Bonifaz  advances  up  the  Guadalquivir. — Don 
Pelayo  Correa,  Master  of  Santiago. — His  valorous  deeds,  and  the  miracles 
wrought  in  his  behalf 97 


CHAPTER  XV. 

King  Fernando  changes  his  camp. — Garci  Perez  and  the  seven  Moors 101 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

Of  the  raft  built  by  the  Moors,  and  how  it  was  boarded  by  Admiral  Bonifaz. — 
Destruction  of  the  Moorish  fleet. — Succor  from  Africa 104 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

Of  the  stout  Prior,  Ferran  Ruyz,  and  how  he  rescued  his  cattle  from  the  Moors. 

— Further  enterprises  of  the  Prior,  and  of  the  ambuscade  into  which  he  fell ...  106 

CHAPTER  XVin. 

Bravado  of  the  three  cavaliers. — Ambush  at  the  bridge  over  the  Guadayra.— 
Desperate  valor  of  Garci  Perez.— Grand  attempt  of  Admiral  Bonifaz  on  the 


bridge  of  boats. — Seville  dismembered  from  Triana 109 

CHAPTER  XIX 

Investment  of  Triana. — Garci  Perez  and  the  Infanzon 114 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Capitulation  of  Seville.— Dispersion  of  the  Moorish  inhabitants.— Triumphant 
entry  of  King  Fernando hq 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


$>e$th  of  King  Fernando. , 


• » ••••»••!  t • I , • < > < I M • • ^ M I f M > ! ) ] a | | « • > f I ■ n • y I 1 f ( « I , I 


m 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNAN  GONZALEZ, 

COUNT  OF  CASTILE. 


INTRODUCTION. 

At  the  time  of  the  general  wreck  of  Spain  by  the  sudden 
tempest  of  Arab  invasion,  many  of  the  inhabitants  took  ref- 
uge in  the  mountains  of  the  Asturias,  burying  themselves  in 
narrow  valleys  difficult  of  access,  wherever  a constant  stream 
of  water  afforded  a green  bosom  of  pasture-land  and  scanty 
fields  for  cultivation.  For  mutual  protection  they  gathered  to- 
gether in  small  villages  called  castros,  or  castrellos,  with  watch- 
towers  and  fortresses  on  impending  cliffs,  in  which  they  might 
shelter  and  defend  themselves  in  case  of  sudden  inroad.  Thus 
arose  the  kingdom  of  the  Asturias,  subject  to  Pelayo  and  the 
kings  his  successors,  who  gradually  extended  their  dominions, 
built  towns  and  cities,  and  after  a time  fixed  their  seat  of  gov- 
ernment at  the  city  of  Leon. 

An  important  part  of  the  region  over  which  they  bore  sway 
was  ancient  Cantabria,  extending  from  the  Bay  of  Biscay  to 
the  Duero,  and  called  Castile  from  the  number  of  castles  with 
which  it  was  studded.  They  divided  it  into  seigniories,  over 
which  they  placed  civil  and  military  governors  called  counts — 
a title  said  to  be  derived  from  the  Latin  comes , a companion, 
the  person  enjoying  it  being  admitted  to  the  familiar  compan- 
ionship of  the  king,  entering  into  his  councils  in  time  of  peace, 
and  accompanying  him  to  the  field  in  time  of  war.  The  title 
of  count  was  therefore  more  dignified  than  that  of  dijko  in  the 
time  of  th§  Gothic  kinp* 


8 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


The  power  of  these  counts  increased  to  such  a degree  that 
four  of  them  formed  a league  to  declare  themselves  independ- 
ent of  the  crown  of  Leon.  Ordono  II. , who  was  then  king,  re- 
ceived notice  of  it,  and  got  them  into  his  power  by  force,  as 
some  assert,  but  as  others  maintain,  by  perfidious  artifice.  At 
any  rate,  they  were  brought  to  court,  convicted  of  treason,  and 
publicly  beheaded.  The  Castilians  flew  to  arms  to  revenge 
their  deaths.  Ordono  took  the  field  with  a powerful  army,  but 
his  own  death  defeated  all  his  plans. 

The  Castilians  now  threw  off  allegiance  to  the  kingdom  of 
Leon,  and  elected  two  judges  to  rule  over  them — one  in  a civil, 
the  other  in  a military  capacity.  The  first  who  filled  those 
stations  were  Nuno  Rasura  and  Lain  Calvo,  two  powerful  no- 
bles, the  former  descended  from  Diego  Porcello,  a count  of 
Lara;  the  latter,  ancestor  of  the  renowned  Cid  Campeador. 

Nuno  Rasura,  the  civil  and  political  judge,  was  succeeded  by 
his  son  Gonzalez  Nuno,  who  married  Dona  Ximena,  a daughter 
of  one  of  the  counts  of  Castile  put  to  death  by  Ordono  II. 
From  this  marriage  came  Fernan  Gonzalez,  the  subject  of  the 
following  chronicle. 


CHAPTER  I. 

INSTALLATION  OP  FERNAN  GONZALEZ  AS  COUNT  OF  CASTILE. — 
HIS  FIRST  CAMPAIGN  AGAINST  THE  MOORS. — VICTORY  OF  SAN 
QUIRCE. — HOW  THE  COUNT  DISPOSED  OF  THE  SPOILS. 

The  renowned  Fernan  Gonzalez,  the  most  complete  hero  of 
his  time,  was  born  about  the  year  887.  Historians  trace  his 
descent  to  Nuno  Belchidez,  nephew  of  the  Emperor  Charle- 
magne, and  Dona  Sula  Bella,  granddaughter  to  the  Prince  Don 
Sancho,  rightful  sovereign  of  Spain,  but  superseded  by  Roder- 
ick, the  last  of  the  Gothic  kings. 

Fernan  Gonzalez  was  hardily  educated  among  the  mountains 
in  a strong  place  called  Maron,  in  the  house  of  Martin  Gonzalez, 
a gallant  and  veteran  cavalier.  From  his  earliest  years  he  was 
inured  to  all  kinds  of  toils  and  perils,  taught  to  hunt,  to  hawk, 
to  ride  the  great  horse,  to  manage  sword,  lance,  and  buckler ; 
in  a word,  he  was  accomplished  in  all  the  noble  exercises  befit- 
ting a cavalier. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERN  AN  GONZALEZ. 


9 


His  father  Gonzalvo  Nunez  died  in  903,  and  his  elder  brother 
Rodrigo  in  904,  without  issue ; and  such  was  the  admiration  al- 
ready entertained  of  Fernan  Gonzalez  by  the  hardy  mountain- 
eers and  old  Castilian  warriors,  that  though  scarce  seventeen 
years  of  age  he  was  unanimously  elected  to  rule  over  them. 
His  title  is  said  to  have  been  Count,  Duke,  and  Consul,  under 
the  seigniory  of  Alonzo  the  Great,  King  of  Leon.  A cortes,  or 
assemblage  of  the  nobility  and  chivalry  of  Castile  and  of  the 
mountains,  met  together  at  the  recently  built  city  of  Burgos  to  ’ 
do  honor  to  his  installation.  Sebastian,  the  renowned  Bishop  ‘ 
of  Oca,  officiated. 

In  those  stern  days  of  Spain,  the  situation  of  a sovereign  was 
not  that  of  silken  ease  and  idle  ceremonial.  When  he  put  the 
rich  crown  upon  his  head,  he  encircled  it  likewise  with  shining 
steel.  With  the  sceptre  were  united  the  lance  and  shield,  em- 
blems of  perpetual  war  against  the  enemies  of  the  faith.  The 
cortes  took  this  occasion  to  pass  the  following  laws  for  the 
government  of  the  realm : 

1.  Above  all  things  the  people  should  observe  the  law  of  God, 
the  canons  and  statutes  of  the  holy  fathers,  the  liberty  and 
privileges  of  the  Church,  and  the  respect  due  to  its  ministers. 

2.  No  person  should  prosecute  another  out  of  Castile  at  any 
tribunal  of  justice  or  of  arms,  under  pain  of  being  considered 
a stranger. 

3.  All  Jews  and  Moors  who  refused  to  acknowledge  the 
Christian  faith  should  depart  from  Castile  within  two  months. 

4.  That  cavaliers  of  noble  blood  should  treat  their  tenants 
and  vassals  with  love  and  gentleness. 

5.  That  he  who  slew  another,  or  committed  any  other  grave 
offence,  should  make  equal  measure  of  atonement. 

6.  That  no  one  should  take  the  property  of  another ; but,  if 
oppressed  by  poverty,  should  come  to  the  count,  who  ought  to 
be  as  a father  to  all. 

7.  That  all  should  unite  and  be  of  one  heart,  and  aid  one 
another  in  defense  of  their  faith  and  of  their  country. 

Such  were  the  ordinances  of  the  ancient  Cortes  of  Burgos ; 
brief  and  simple,  and  easy  to  be  understood;  not,  as  at  the 
present  day,  multifarious,  and  perplexed,  to  the  confusion  and 
ruin  of  clients  and  the  enrichment  of  lawyers. 

Scarce  was  the  installation  ended,  and  while  Burgos  was  yet 
abandoned  to  festivity,  the  young  count,  with  the  impatient 
ardor  of  youth,  caused  the  trumpets  to  sound  through  the 
Streets  a call  to  arms.  A captain  of  the  Moorish  king  of 


10 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


Toledo  was  ravaging  the  territory  of  Castile  at  the  head  of 
seven  thousand  troops,  and  against  him  the  youthful  count 
determined  to  make  his  first  campaign.  In  the  spur  of  the 
moment  but  one  hundred  horsemen  and  fifteen  hundred  foot- 
soldiers  could  be  collected;  but  with  this  slender  force  the 
count  prepared  to  take  the  field.  Ruy  Velazquez,  a valiant 
cavalier,  remonstrated  against  such  rashness,  but  in  vain.  “ I 
owe,”  said  the  count,  a “death  to  the  grave;  the  debt  can 
never  be  paid  so  honorably  as  in  the  service  of  God  and  my  • 
country.  Let  every  one,  therefore,  address  himself  heart  and 
hand  to  this  enterprise ; for  if  I come  face  to  face  with  this 
Moor,  I will  most  assuredly  give  him  battle.”  So  saying,  he 
knelt  before  Bishop  Sebastian  of  Salamanca  and  craved  his 
benediction.  The  reverend  prelate  invoked  on  his  head  the 
blessing  and  protection  of  Heaven,  for  his  heart  yearned 
toward  him;  but  when  he  saw  the  youthful  warrior  about  to 
depart,  he  kindled  as  it  were  with  a holy  martial  fire,  and 
ordering  his  steed  to  be  saddled  he  sallied  forth  with  him  to 
the  wars. 

The  little  army  soon  came  upon  traces  of  the  enemy  in  fields 
laid  waste,  and  the  smoking  ruins  of  villages  and  hamlets. 
The  count  sent  out  scouts  to  clamber  every  height  and  explore 
every  defile.  From  the  summit  of  a hill  they  beheld  the 
Moors  encamped  in  a valley  which  was  covered  with  the  flocks 
and  herds  swept  from  the  neighboring  country.  The  camp  of 
the  marauders  was  formidable  as  to  numbers,  with  various 
standards  floating  in  the  breeze;  for  in  this  foray  were  en- 
gaged the  Moorish  chiefs  of  Saragossa,  Denia,  and  Seville,  to- 
gether with  many  valiant  Moslems  who  had  crossed  the  straits 
from  Africa  to  share  in  what  they  considered  a holy  enter- 
prise. The  scouts  observed,  however,  that  the  most  negligent 
security  reigned  throughout  the  camp ; some  reposing,  others 
feasting  and  revelling,  all  evidently  considering  themselves 
safe  from  any  attack. 

Upon  hearing  this  the  count  led  his  men  secretly  and  silently 
to  the  assault,  and  came  upon  the  Moors  in  the  midst  of  their 
revelry,  before  they  had  time  to  buckle  on  their  armor.  The 
infidels,  however,  made  a brave  though  confused  resistance; 
the  camp  was  strewn  with  their  dead ; many  were  taken  pri- 
soners, and  the  rest  began  to  falter.  The  count  killed  their 
captain-general  with  his  own  hand,  in  single  fight,  as  he  was 
bravely  rallying  his  troops.  Upon  seeing  him  fall ^ the  Moors 
thjw  down  their  weapons  and  fled, 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERN  AN  GONZALEZ. 


11 


Immense  booty  was  found  in  the  Moorish  camp,— partly  the 
rich  arms  and  equipments  of  the  infidel  warriors,  partly  the 
plunder  of  the  country.  An  ordinary  victor  would  have 
merely  shared  the  spoils  with  his  soldiery,  but  the  count 
was  as  pious  as  he  was  brave,  and,  moreover,  had  by  his  side 
the  venerable  Bishop  of  Salamanca  as  counsellor.  Contenting 
himself,  therefore,  with  distributing  one-third  among  his 
soldiery,  he  shared  the  rest  with  God,  devoting  a large  part  to 
the  Church,  and  to  the  relief  of  souls  in  purgatory — a pious 
custom,  which  he  ever  after  observed.  He  moreover  founded 
a church  on  the  field  of  battle,  dedicated  to  St.  Quirce,  on 
whose  festival  (the  16th  July)  this  victory  was  obtained.  To 
this  church  was  subsequently  added  a monastery  wTiere  a 
worthy  fraternity  of  monks  were  maintained  in  the  odor  of 
sanctity,  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  this  victory.  All  this 
was  doubtless  owing  to  the  providental  presence  of  the  good 
bishop  on  this  occasion ; and  this  is  one  instance  of  the  great 
benefit  derived  from  those  priests  and  monks  and  other  pur- 
veyors of  the  Church,  who  hovered  about  the  Christian  camps 
throughout  all  these  wars  with  the  infidels. 


CHAPTER  II. 

OF  THE  SALLY  FROM  BURGOS  AND  SURPRISE  OF  THE  CASTLE  OF 
LARA.— CAPITULATION  OF  THE  TOWN.— VISIT  TO  ALFONSO  THE 
GREAT  KING  OF  LEON. 

Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  did  not  remain  idle  after  the 
victory  of  San  Quirce.  There  was  at  this  time  an  old  castle, 
strong  but  much  battered  in  the  wars,  which  protected  a small 
town,  the  remains  of  the  once  flourishing  city  of  Lara.  It  was 
the  ancient  domain  of  his  family,  but  was  at  present  in  posses- 
sion of  the  Moors.  In  sooth  it  had  repeatedly  been  taken  and 
retaken ; for  in  those  iron  days  no  castle  nor  fortress  remained 
long  under  the  same  masters.  One  year  it  was  in  the  hands  of 
the  Christians,  the  next,  of  the  Moors.  Some  of  these  castles, 
with  their  dependent  towns,  were  sacked,  burnt,  and  demo- 
lished; others  remained  silent  and  deserted,  their  original 
owners  fearing  to  reside  in  them ; and  their  ruined  towers  were 
only  tenanted  by  bats  and  owls  and  screaming  birds  of  prey. 
Lara  had  lain  for  a time  in  ruins  after  being  captured  by  the 


12 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


Moors,  but  had  been  rebuilt  by  them  with  diminished  grand- 
eur, and  they  held  a strong  garrison  in  the  castle,  whence  they 
sallied  forth  occasionally  to  ravage  the  lands  of  the  Christians. 
The  Moorish  chieftain  of  Lara,  as  has  been  observed,  was 
among  the  associated  marauders  who  had  been  routed  in  the 
battle  of  San  Quirce ; and  the  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  thought 
this  a favorable  time  to  strike  for  the  recovery  of  his  family 
domain,  now  that  the  infidel  possessor  was  weakened  by  de- 
feat and  could  receive  no  succor. 

Appointing  Rodrigo  Velasquez  and  the  Count  Don  Vela 
Alvarez  to  act  as  governors  of  Castile  during  his  absence,  the 
count  sallied  forth  from  Burgos  with  a brilliant  train  of 
chivalry.  Among  the  distinguished  cavaliers  who  attended 
him  were  Martin  Gonzalez,  Don  Gustios  Gonzalez,  Don  Ve- 
lasco, and  Don  Lope  de  Biscaya  which  last  brought  a goodly 
train  of  stout  Biscayans.  The  alfarez,  or  standard-bearer  was 
Orbita  Velasquez,  who  had  distinguished  himself  in  the  battle 
of  San  Quirce.  He  bore  as  a standard  a great  cross  of  silver, 
which  shone  gloriously  in  front  of  the  host,  and  is  preserved, 
even  to  the  present  day,  in  the  church  of  San  Pedro  de  Ar- 
lanza.  One  hundred  and  fifty  noble  cavaliers,  well  armed 
and  mounted,  with  many  esquires  and  pages  of  the  lance, 
and  three  thousand  foot-soldiers,  all  picked  men,  formed  this 
small  but  stout-hearted  army. 

The  count  led  his  troops  with  such  caution  that  they  arrived 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Lara  without  being  discovered.  It  was 
the  vigil  of  St.  John;  the  country  was  wrapped  in  evening 
shadows,  and  the  count  was  enabled  to  approach  near  to  the 
place  to  make  his  observations.  He  perceived  that  his  force 
was  too  inconsiderable  to  invest  the  town  and  fortress.  Be- 
sides, about  two  leagues  distant  was  the  gaunt  and  rock-built 
castle  of  Carazo,  a presidio  or  stronghold  of  the  Moors,  whence 
he  might  be  attacked  in  the  rear,  should  he  linger  before  the 
fortress.  It  was  evident,  therefore,  that  whatever  was  to  be 
effected  must  be  done  promptly  and  by  sudden  surprise.  Re- 
volving these  things  in  his  mind,  he  put  his  troops  in  ambush 
in  a deep  ravine  where  they  took  their  rest,  while  he  kept 
watch  upon  the  castle ; maturing  his  plans  against  the  morrow. 
In  this  way  he  passed  his  midsummer's  night,  the  vigil  of  the 
blessed  St.  John. 

The  festival  of  St.  John  is  observed  as  well  by  Mahometans 
as  Christians.  During  the  night  the  bonfires  blazed  on  the 
hill-tops  and  the  sound  of  music  and  festivity  was  heard  from 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNAN  GONZALEZ. 


13 


within  the  town.  When  the  rising  sun  shone  along  the  valley 
of  the  Arlanza,  the  Moors  in  the  castle,  unsuspicious  of  any 
lurking  danger,  threw  open  the  gates  and  issued  forth  to  rec- 
reate themselves  in  the  green  fields  and  along  the  banks  of  the 
river.  When  they  had  proceeded  to  a considerable  distance, 
and  a hill  shut  them  from  view,  the  count  with  his  eager  fol- 
lowers issued  silently  but  swiftly  from  their  hiding-place  and 
made  directly  for  the  castle.  On  the  way  they  met  with  an- 
other band  of  Moors  who  had  likewise  come  forth  for  amuse- 
ment. The  count  struck  the  leader  to  the  earth  with  one  blow 
of  his  lance ; the  rest  were  either  slain  or  taken  prisoners ; so 
that  not  one  escaped  to  give  the  alarm. 

Those  of  the  garrison  who  had  remained  in  the  castle,  seeing 
a Christian  force  rushing  up  to  the  very  walls,  hastened  to 
close  the  gates,  but  it  was  too  late.  The  count  and  his  cava- 
liers burst  them  open  and  put  every  one  to  the  sword  who 
made  opposition.  Leaving  Don  Velasco  and  a number  of 
soldiers  to  guard  the  castle,  the  count  hastened  with  the  rest 
in  pursuit  of  the  Moors  who  were  solemnizing  the  day  on  the 
banks  of  the  Alanza.  Some  were  reclining  on  the  grass, 
others  were  amusing  themselves  with  music  and  the  popular 
dance  of  the  Zambra,  while  their  arms  lay  scattered  among 
the  herbage. 

At  sight  of  the  Christians,  they  snatched  up  their  weapons 
and  made  a desperate  though  vain  resistance.  Within  two 
hours  almost  all  were  either  slain  or  captured ; a few  escaped 
to  the  neighboring  mountains  of  Carazo.  The  town,  seeing 
the  castle  in  the  hands  of  the  Christians,  and  the  garrison 
routed  and  destroyed,  readily  capitulated;  and  the  inhabi- 
tants were  permitted  to  retain  unmolested  possession  of  their 
houses,  on  agreeing  to  pay  to  the  count  the  same  tribute  which 
had  been  exacted  from  them  by  the  Moorish  king.  Don 
Velasco  was  left  alcaid  of  the  fortress,  and  the  count  returned, 
covered  with  glory,  to  his  capital  of  Burgos. 

The  brilliant  victories  and  hardy  deeds  of  arms  with  which 
the  youthful  Count  of  Castile  had  commenced  his  reign  excited 
the  admiration  of  Alfonso  the  Great,  King  of  Leon,  and  he 
sent  missives  urging  him  to  appear  at  his  royal  court.  The 
count  accordingly  set  forth  with  a cavalcade  of  his  most  ap- 
proved knights  and  many  of  his  relatives,  sumptuously  armed 
and  arrayed,  and  mounted  on  steeds  richly  caparisoned.  It 
was  a pageant  befitting  a young  and  magnificent  chief,  in  the 
freshness  and  pleasance  of  his  years. 


u 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


The  king  came  out  of  the  city  to  meet  him,  attended  by  all 
the  pomp  and  grandeur  of  his  court.  The  count  alighted,  and 
approached  to  kiss  the  king’s  hand;  but  Alfonso  alighted  also, 
and  embraced  him  with  great  affection,  and  the  friendship  of 
these  illustrious  princes  continued  without  interruption 
throughout  the  life  of  the  king. 


i 

) 


CHAPTER  III. 

EXPEDITION  AGAINST  THE  FORTRESS  OF  MUGNON. — DESPERATE  DE- 
FENCE OF  THE  MOORS. — ENTERPRISE  AGAINST  CASTRO  XERIZ. 

Many  are  the  doughty  achievements  recorded  in  ancient 
chronicles  of  this  most  valorous  cavalier ; among  others  is  his 
expedition,  with  a chosen  band,  against  the  castle  of  Mugnon, 
a place  of  great  importance,  which  stood  at  no  great  distance 
from  Burgos.  He  sallied  from  his  capital  in  an  opposite  direc- 
tion, to  delude  the  Moorish  scouts ; but  making  a sudden  turn, 
came  upon  the  fortress  by  surprise,  broke  down  the  gates,  and 
forced  his  way  in  at  the  head  of  his  troops,  having  nothing  but 
a dagger  in  his  hand,  his  lance  and  sword  having  been  broken 
in  the  assault.  The  Moors  fought  desperately  from  court  to 
tower,  from  tower  to  wall ; and  when  they  saw  all  resistance 
vain,  many  threw  themselves  from  the  battlements  into  the 
ditch  rather  than  be  made  captives.  Leaving  a strong  garri- 
son in  the  place,  the  count  returned  to  Burgos. 

His  next  enterprise  was  against  Castro  Xeriz,  a city  with  a 
% strong  castle,  which  had  been  a thorn  in  the  side  of  Castile— 
\ the  Moorish  garrison  often  sweeping  the  road  between  Bur- 
gos and  Leon,  carrying  off  travellers,  capturing  cattle,  and 
plundering  convoys  of  provisions  and  merchandise.  The  count 
advanced  against  this  place  in  open  day,  ravaging  the  country 
and  announcing  his  approach  by  clouds  of  smoke  from  the 
burning  habitations  of  the  Moors.  Abdallah,  the  alcaid  of  the 
fortress,  would  have  made  peace,  but  the  count  refused  all 
terms.  “ God,”  said  he,  “ has  appointed  me  to  rescue  his  holy 
inheritance  from  the  power  of  infidels;  nothing  is  to  be  ne 
gotiated  but  by  the  edge  of  the  sword.” 

Abdallah  then  made  a sally  with  a chosen  band  of  his  cava- 
liers. They  at  first  careered  lightly  with  their  Arabian  steeds 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERN  AN  GONZALEZ. 


15 


and  launched  their  Moorisn  darts,  but  the  Christians  closed  in 
the  old  Gothic  style,  fighting  hand  to  hand.  Abdallah  fell  by 
the  sword  of  the  count,  and  his  followers  fled  with  loosened 
reins  back  to  the  city.  The  Christians  followed  hard  upon 
them,  strewing  the  ground  with  dead.  At  the  gate  of  the  city 
they  were  met  by  Almondir,  the  son  of  Abdallah,  who  disputed 
the  gateway  and  the  street  inch  by  inch,  until  the  whole  place 
ran  with  blood.  The  Moors,  driven  from  the  streets,  took 
refuge  in  the  castle,  where  Almondir  inspirited  them  to  a 
desperate  defence,  until  a stone  struck  him  as  he  stood  on  the 
battlements,  and  he  fell  to  the  earth  dead.  Having  no  leader 
to  direct  them,  the  Moors  surrendered.  When  the  town  was 
cleared  of  the  dead  and  order  restored,  the  count  divided  the 
spoils — allotting  the  houses  among  his  followers,  and  peopling 
the  place  with  Christians.  He  gave  the  command  of  it  to 
Layn  Bermudez,  with  the  title  of  count.  From  him  descended 
an  illustrious  line  of  cavaliers  termed  de  Castro,  whose  male 
line  became  extinct  in  Castile,  but  continued  to  flourish  in 
Portugal.  The  place  is  said  to  have  been  called  Castro  Xeriz, 
in  consequence  of  the  blood  shed  in  this  conflict— xeriz,  in  the 
Arabic  language  signifying  bloody.* 


CHAPTER  IV. 

HOW  THE  COUNT  OF  CASTILE  AND  THE  KING  OF  LEON  MAKE  A 
TRIUMPHANT  FORAY  INTO  THE  MOORISH  COUNTRY. — CAPTURE 
OF  SALAMANCA. — OF  THE  CHALLENGE  BROUGHT  BY  THE  HER- 
ALD AND  OF  THE  COUNT’S  DEFIANCE. 

Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  was  restless,  daring,  and  impet- 
uous ; he  seldom  suffered  lance  to  rest  on  wall  or  steed  in  sta- 
ble, and  no  Moorish  commander  could  sleep  in  quiet  who  held 
town  or  tower  in  his  neighborhood.  King  Alfonso  the  Great 
became  emulous  of  sharing  in  his  achievements,  and  they  made 
a campaign  together  against  the  Moors.  The  count  brought  a 
splendid  array  of  Castilian  chivalry  into  the  field,  together 
with  a host  of  Montaneses,  hardy  and  vigorous  troops  from  the 
Asturias,  excellent  for  marauding  warfare.  The  King  of  Leon 


* Sandoval,  p.  301. 


16 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


brought  his  veteran  hands,  seasoned  to  battle.  With  their 
United  forces  they  ravaged  the  Moorish  country,  marking  their 
way  with  havoc  and  devastation ; arrived  before  Salamanca, 
they  took  that  city  by  storm  after  a brave  defence,  and  gave 
it  up  to  be  sacked  by  the  soldiery.  After  which  such  of  the 
Moors  as  chose  to  remain  in  it  were  suffered  to  retain  their  pos- 
sessions as  vassals  to  the  king.  Having  accomplished  this 
triumphant  foray,  they  returned,  each  one  to  his  capital. 

The  Count  of  Castile  did  not  repose  long  in  his  palace.  One 
day  a Moorish  herald  magnificently  dressed,  rode  into  the  city 
of  Burgos,  bringing  Fenian  Gonzalez  a cartel  of  defiance.  It 
was  from  a vaunting  Moor  named  Acefeli,  who  had  entered  the 
territories  of  Castile  with  a powerful  force  of  horse  and  foot, 
giving  out  that  he  had  come  to  measure  strength  and  prowess 
with  the  count  in  battle.  Don  Fernan  Gonzalez  replied  to  the 
defiance  with  weapon  in  hand  at  the  head  of  his  warriors.  A 
pitched  battle  ensued,  which  lasted  from  early  mom  until 
evening  twilight.  In  the  course  of  the  fight  the  count  was  in 
imminent  peril,  his  horse  being  killed  under  him  and  himself 
surrounded,  but  he  was  rescued  by  his  cavaliers.  After  great 
bloodshed,  the  Moors  were  routed  and  pursued  beyond  the  bor- 
ders. The  spoil  gained  in  this  battle  was  devoutly  expended 
in  repairing  the  churches  of  Castile  and  the  Montaneses. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

A NIGHT  ASSAULT  UPON  THE  CASTLE  OF  CARAZO. — THE  MOORISH 
MAIDEN  WHO  BETRAYED  THE  GARRISON. 

In  those  warlike  times  of  Spain  every  one  lived  with  sword 
in  hand ; there  was  scarcely  a commanding  cliff  or  hill-top  but 
had  its  castle.  Moors  and  Christians  regarded  each  other  from 
rival  towers  and  battlements  perched  on  opposite  heights,  and 
were  incessantly  contending  for  the  dominion  of  the  valleys. 

We  have  seen  that  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  had  regained  pos- 
session of  the  ancient  town  and  fortress  of  Lara,  the  domain 
of  his  ancestors;  but  it  will  be  recollected  that  within  two 
leagues’  distance  stood  the  Moorish  presidio  of  Carazo.  It  was 
perched  like  an  eagle’s  nest  on  the  summit  of  a mountain,  and 
the  cragged  steepness  of  its  position,  and  its  high  and  thick 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERN  AN  GONZALEZ. 


17 


walls  seemed  to  render  it  proof  against  all  assault.  The  Moors 
who  garrisoned  it  were  fierce  marauders,  who  used  to  sweep 
down  like  birds  of  prey  from  their  lofty  nest,  pounce  upon  the 
flocks  and  dwellings  of  the  Christians,  make  hasty  ravages, 
and  bear  away  their  spoils  to  the  mountain-top.  There  was  no 
living  with  safety  or  tranquillity  within  the  scope  of  their  ma- 
raudings. 

Intelligence  of  their  misdeeds  was  brought  to  the  count  at 
Burgos.  He  determined  to  have  that  castle  at  Carazo,  what- 
ever might  be  the  cost ; for  this  purpose  he  called  a council  of 
his  chosen  cavaliers.  He  did  not  conceal  the  peril  of  the  enter- 
prise, from  the  crag-built  situation  of  the  castle,  its  great 
strength,  and  the  vigilance  and  valor  of  its  garrison.  Still  the 
Castilian  cavaliers  offered  themselves  to  carry  the  fortress  or 
die. 

The  count  sailed  secretly  from  Burgos  with  a select  force, 
and  repaired  in  the  night-time  to  Lara,  that  the  Moors  might 
have  no  intimation  or  suspicion  of  his  design.  In  the  midst  of 
the  next  night,  the  castle-gate  was  quietly  opened  and  they  is- 
sued forth  as  silently  as  possible,  pursuing  their  course  in  the 
deep  shadows  of  the  valley  until  they  came  to  the  foot  of  the 
mountain  of  Carazo.  Here  they  remained  in  ambush,  and 
sent  forth  scouts.  As  the  latter  prowled  about  the  day  began 
to  dawn,  and  they  heard  a female  voice  singing  above  them  on 
the  side  of  the  mountain.  It  was  a Moorish  damsel  coming 
down,  with  a vessel  upon  her  head.  She  descended  to  a foun- 
tain which  gushed  forth  beneath  a grove  of  willows,  and  as  she 
sang  she  began  to  fill  her  vessel  with  water.  The  spies  issued 
from  their  concealment,  seized  her,  and  carried  her  to  Count 
Fernan  Gonzalez. 

Overcome  by  terror  or  touched  by  conviction,  the  Moorish 
damsel  threw  herself  on  her  knees  before  the  count,  declared 
her  wish  to  turn  Christian,  and  offered,  in  proof  of  her  sin- 
cerity, to  put  him  in  a way  of  gaining  possession  of  the  castle. 
Being  encouraged  to  proceed,  she  told  him  that  there  was  to  be 
a marriage  feast  that  day  in  the  castle,  and  of  course  a great 
deal  of  revelry,  which  would  put  the  garrison  off  its  guard. 
She  pointed  out  a situation  where  he  might  lay  in  ambush  with 
his  troops  in  sight  of  the  tower,  and  promised  when  a favorable 
moment  presented  for  an  attack  to  give  a signal  with  a fight. 

The  count  regarded  her  for  a time  with  a fixed  and  earnest 
gaze,  but  saw  no  faltering  nor  change  of  countenance.  The 
case  required  bold  measures,  combined  with  stratagem ; so  he 


18 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES . 


confided  in  her,  and  permitted  her  to  return  to  the  castle.  All 
day  he  lay  in  ambush  with  his  troops,  each  man  with  his 
hand  upon  his  weapon  to  guard  against  surprise.  The  distant 
sound  of  revelry  from  the  castle,  with  now  and  then  the 
clash  of  cymbals,  the  bray  of  trumpets,  and  a strain  of  festive 
music,  showed  the  gaiety  that  reigned  within.  Night  came 
on ; lights  gleamed  from  walls  and  windows,  but  none  resem- 
bling the  appointed  signal.  It  was  almost  midnight,  and  the 
count  began  to  fear  the  Moorish  damsel  had  deceived  him, 
when  to  his  great  joy  he  saw  the  signal  light  gleaming  from 
one  of  the  towers. 

He  now  sallied  forth  with  his  men,  and  all,  on  foot,  clam- 
bered up  the  steep  and  rugged  height.  They  had  almost 
attained  the  foot  of  the  towers  when  they  were  descried  by  a 
sentinel  who  cried  with  a loud  voice,  “The  foe!  the  foe!  to 
arms ! to  arms !”  The  count,  followed  by  his  hardy  cavaliers, 
rushed  forward  to  the  gate,  crying,  “ God  and  Saint  Millan!” 
The  whole  castle  was  instantly  in  an  uproar.  The  Moors 
were  bewildered  by  the  sudden  surprise  and  the  confusion  of 
a night  assault.  They  fought  bravely,  but  irregularly.  The 
Christians  had  but  one  plan  and  one  object.  After  a hard 
struggle  and  great  bloodshed,  they  forced  the  gate  and  made 
themselves  masters  of  the  castle. 

The  count  remained  several  days,  fortifying  the  place  and 
garrisoning  it,  that  it  might  not  fall  again  into  the  possession 
of  the  Moors.  He  bestowed  magnificent  rewards  on  the  Moor- 
ish damsel  who  had  thus  betrayed  her  countrymen ; she  em- 
braced the  Christian  faith,  to  which  she  had  just  given  such  a 
signal  proof  of  devotion,  though  it  is  not  said  whether  the 
count  had  sufficient  confidence  in  her  conversion  and  her 
newly  moulded  piety  to  permit  her  to  remain  in  the  fortress 
she  had  betrayed. 

Having  completed  his  arrangements,  the  count  departed  on 
his  return,  and  encountered  on  the  road  his  mother  Dona 
Nuna  Fernandez,  who,  exulting  in  his  success,  had  set  out 
to  visit  him  at  Carazo.  The  mother  and  son  had  a joyful 
meeting,  and  gave  the  name  of  Contreras  to  the  place  of  their 
encounter. 


CHRONIGLE  OF  FERN  AN  GONZALEZ. 


19 


CHAPTER  VI. 

DEATH  OF  ALFONSO,  KING  OF  LEON. — THE  MOORS  DETERMINED 
TO  STRIKE  A FRESH  BLOW  AT  THE  COUNT,  WHO  SUMMONS  ALL 
CASTILE  TO  HIS  STANDARD. — OF  HIS  HUNT  IN  THE  FOREST 
WHILE  WAITING  FOR  THE  ENEMY,  AND  OF  THE  HERMIT  THAT 
HE  MET  WITH. 

Alfonso  the  Great  was  now  growing  old  and  infirm, 
and  his  queen  and  sons,  taking  advantage  of  his  age  and 
feebleness,  endeavored  by  harsh  treatment  to  compel  him  to 
relinquish  the  crown.  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  interceded 
between  them,  but  in  vain ; and  Alfonso  was  at  length  obliged 
to  surrender  his  crown  to  his  oldest  son,  Don  Garcia.  The 
aged  monarch  then  set  out  upon  a pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of 
St.  Iago;  but,  falling  ill  of  his  mortal  malady,  sent  for  the 
count  to  come  to  him  to  his  death-bed  at  Zamora.  The  count 
hastened  thither  with  all  zeal  and  loyalty.  He  succeeded  in 
effecting  a reconciliation  between  Alfonso  and  his  son  Don 
Garcia  in  his  dying  moments,  and  was  with  the  monarch 
when  he  quietly  breathed  his  last.  The  death  of  the  king  gave 
fresh  courage  to  the  Moors,  and  they  thought  this  a favorable 
moment  to  strike  a blow  at  the  rising  power  of  the  count. 
Abderahman  was  at  this  time  king  of  Cordova  and  Miramam- 
olin,  or  sovereign  of  the  Moors  in  Spain.  He  had  been  enraged 
at  the  capture  of  the  castle  of  Carazo,  and  the  other  victories 
of  the  count ; and  now  that  the  latter  had  no  longer  the  King 
of  Leon  to  back  him,  it  was  thought  he  might,  by  a vigorous 
effort,  be  completely  crushed.  Abderahman  accordingly  as- 
sembled at  Cordova  a great  army  of  Moorish  warriors,  both 
those  of  Spain  and  Africa,  and  sent  them,  under  the  command 
of  Almanzor,  to  ravage  the  country  of  Count  Fernan  Ganzalez. 
This  Almanzor  was  the  most  valiant  Moorish  general  in  Spain, 
and  one  on  whom  Abderahman  depended  as  upon  his  right 
hand. 

On  hearing  of  the  impending  danger,  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez 
summoned  all  men  of  Castile  capable  of  bearing  arms  to  repair 
to  his  standard  at  Munon.  His  force  when  assembled  was  but 
small,  but  composed  of  the  bravest  chivalry  of  Castile,  any 
one  night  of  which  he  esteemed  equal  to  ten  Moors.  One  of 


20 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


the  most  eminent  of  his  cavaliers  was  Don  Gonzalo  Gustios,  of 
Lara,  who  brought  seven  valiant  sons  to  the  field — the  same 
afterward  renowned  in  Spanish  story  as  the  seven  princes  of 
Lara.  With  Don  Gonzalo  came  also  his  wife’s  brother,  Ruy  or 
Rodrigo  Velasquez,  a cavalier  of  great  powers. 

In  the  meantime  tidings  continued  to  arrive  of  the  great 
force  of  the  enemy,  which  was  said  to  cover  the  country  with 
its  tents.  The  name  of  the  Moorish  general,  Almanzor,  like- 
wise  inspired  great  alarm.  One  of  the  count’s  cavaliers,  there- 
fore, Gonzalo  Diaz,  counselled  him  not  to  venture  upon  an 
open  battle  against  such  fearful  odds ; but  rather  to  make  a 
tula,  or  ravaging  inroad  into  the  country  of  the  Moors,  by  way 
of  compelling  them  to  make  a truce.  The  count,  however,  re- 
jected his  advice.  “As  to  their  numbers,  ” said  he,  “ one  lion 
is  worth  ten  sheep,  and  thirty  wolves  will  kill  thirty  thousand 
lambs.  As  to  that  Moor,  Almanzor,  be  assured  we  shall  van- 
quish him,  and  the  greater  his  renown  the  greater  will  be  the 
honor  of  the  victory.” 

The  count  now  marched  his  little  army  to  Lara,  where  he 
paused  to  await  the  movements  of  the  enemy.  While  his 
troops  were  lying  there  he  mounted  his  horse  one  day  and 
went  forth  with  a few  attendants  to  hunt  in  the  forests  which 
bordered  the  river  Arlanza.  In  the  course  of  the  chase  he 
roused  a monstrous  boar  and  pursued  it  among  rocks  and 
brakes  until  he  became  separated  from  his  attendants.  Still 
following  the  track  of  the  boar,  he  came  to  the  foot  of  a rocky 
precipice,  up  which  the  animal  mounted  by  a rugged  and  nar- 
row path,  where  the  horse  could  not  follow.  The  count 
alighted,  tied  his  horse  to  an  oak,  and  clambered  up  the  path, 
assisting  himself  at  times  with  his  boar-spear.  The  path  led 
to  a close  thicket  of  cedars,  surrounding  a small  edifice  partly 
built  of  stone  and  partly  hewn  out  of  the  solid  rock.  The  boar 
had  taken  refuge  within,  and  had  taken  his  stand  behind  what 
appeared  to  he  a mass  of  stone.  The  count  was  about  to  launch 
his  javelin  when  he  beheld  a cross  of  stone  standing  on  what 
now  perceived  was  an  altar,  and  he  knew  that  he  was  in  a 
holy  place.  Being  as  pious  as  he  was  brave,  the  good  count 
now  knelt  before  the  altar  and  asked  pardon  of  God  for  the 
sin  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  committing ; and  when  he  had 
finished  this  prayer,  he  added  another  for  victory  over  the 
foe. 

While  he  was  yet  praying,  there  entered  a venerable  monk, 
Fray  Pelayo  by  name,  who,  seeing  him  to  be  a Christian 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERN  AN  GONZALEZ. 


21 


knight,  gave  him  his  benediction.  He  informed  the  count  that 
he  resided  in  this  hermitage  in  company  with  two  other  monks 
— Arsenio  and  Silvano.  The  count  marvelled  much  how  they 
could  live  there  in  a country  overrun  by  enemies,  and  which 
had  for  a long  time,  and  but  recently,  been  in  the  power  of  the 
infidels.  The  hermit  replied  that  in  the  service  of  God  they 
were  ready  to  endure  all  hardships.  It  is  true  they  suffered 
much  from  cold  and  hunger,  being  obliged  to  live  chiefly  on 
herbs  and  roots;  but  by  secret  paths  and  tracks  they  were  in  a 
communication  with  other  hermitages  scattered  throughout; 
the  country,  so  that  they  were  enabled  to  aid  and  comfort  each 
other.  They  could  also  secretly  sustain  in  the  faith  the  Chris- 
tians who  were  held  in  subjection  by  the  Moors,  and  afford 
them  places  of  refuge  and  concealment  in  cases  of  extremity. 

The  count  now  opened  his  heart  to  the  good  hermit,  revealing 
his  name  and  rank,  and  the  perils  impending  over  him  from 
the  invasion  of  the  infidel.  As  the  day  was  far  spent,  Fray 
Pelayo  prevailed  upon  him  to  pass  the  night  in  the  hermitage, 
setting  before  him  barley  bread  and  such  simple  fare  as  his 
cell  afforded. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  count  went  forth  and  found  the 
hermit  seated  beneath  a tree  on  a rock,  whence  he  could  look 
far  and  wide  out  of  the  forest  and  over  the  surrounding  country. 
The  hermit  then  accosted  him  as  one  whose  holy  and  medi- 
cative life  and  mortifications  of  the  flesh  had  given  to  look  into 
the  future  almost  with  the  eye  of  prophecy.  44  Of  a truth,  my 
son,”  said  he,  ‘‘there  are  many  trials  and  hardships  instore 
for  thee ; but  be  of  good  cheer,  thou  wilt  conquer  these  Moors, 
and  wilt  increase  thy  power  and  possessions.”  He  now  re- 
vealed to  the  count  certains  signs  and  portents  which  would 
take  place  during  battle.  44  When  thou  shalt  see  these,”  said 
he,  4 4 be  assured  that  Heaven  is  on  thy  side,  and  thy  victory 
secure.”  The  count  listened  with  devout  attention.  44  If  these 
things  do  indeed  come  to  pass,”  said  he,  44 1 will  found  a church 
and  convent  in  this  place,  to  be  dedicated  to  St.  Peter,  the 
patron  saint  of  this  hermitage ; and  when  I die  my  body  shall 
be  interred  here.  ” Receiving  then  the  benediction  of  the  holy 
friar  he  departed. 


22 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  FORD  OF  CASCAJARES. 

When  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  returned  to  his  troops  he 
found  them  in  great  alarm  at  his  absence,  fearing  some  evil 
had  befallen  him;  but  he  cheered  them  with  an  account  of  his* 
adventure  and  of  the  good  fortune  predicted  by  the  hermit. 

It  was  in  the  month  of  May,  on  the  day  of  the  Holy  Cross, 
that  the  Christian  and  Moslem  armies  came  in  sight  of  each 
other.  The  Moors  advanced  with  a great  sound  of  trumpets, 
atabals,  and  cymbals,  and  their  mighty  host  extended  over 
hill  and  valley.  When  they  saw  how  small  was  the  force  of 
the  Christians  they  put  up  derisive  shouts,  and  rushed  forward 
to  surround  them. 

Don  Fernan  Gonzalez  remained  calm  and  unmoved  upon  a 
rising  ground,  for  the  hour  was  at  hand  when  the  sign  of  vic- 
tory promised  by  the  hermit  was  to  take  place.  Near  by  him 
was  a youthful  cavalier,  Pedro  Gonzalez  by  name,  a native  of 
La  Puente  de  Hitero,  of  fiery  courage  but  vainglorious  temper. 
He  was  cased  in  shining  armor,  and  mounted  on  a beautiful 
horse  impatient  of  spirit  as  himself,  and  incessantly  foaming 
and  champing  on  the  bit  and  pawing  the  earth.  As  the  Moors 
drew  near,  while  there  was  yet  a large  space  between  them  and 
the  Christians,  this  fiery  cavalier  could  no  longer  contain 
himself,  but  giving  reins  to  his  steed  set  off  headlong  to  en- 
counter the  foe;  when  suddenly  the  earth  opened,  man  and 
horse  rushed  downward  into  an  abyss,  and  the  earth  closed  as 
before. 

A cry  of  horror  ran  through  the  Christian  ranks,  and  a 
panic  was  likely  to  seize  upon  them,  but  Don  Fernan  Gonzalez 
rode  out  in  front  of  them,  exclaiming,  ‘ ‘ This  is  the  promised 
sign  of  victory.  Let  us  see  how  Castilians  defend  their  lord, 
for  my  standard  shall  be  borne  into  the  thickest  of  the  fight.” 
So  saying,  he  ordered  Orbita  Fernandez  to  advance  his  stan- 
dard ; and  when  his  troops  saw  the  silver  cross  glittering  on 
high  and  borne  toward  the  enemy,  they  shouted,  ‘ ‘ Castile ! 
Castile!”  and  rushed  forward  to  the  fight.  Immediately 
around  the  standard  fought  Don  Gonzalo  Gustios  and  his  seven 
sons,  and  he  was,  say  the  old  chroniclers,  like  a lion  leading 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNAN  GONZALEZ 


23 


his  whelps  into  the  fight.  Wherever  they  fought  meir  way, 
they  might  be  traced  by  the  bodies  of  bleeding  and  expiring 
infidels.  Few  particulars  of  this  battle  remain  on  record ; but 
it  is  said  the  Moors  were  as  if  struck  with  sudden  fear  and 
weakness,  and  fled  in  confusion.  Almanzor  himself  escaped 
by  the  speed  of  his  horse,  attended  by  a handful  of  his  cava- 
liers. 

In  the  camp  of  the  Moors  was  found  vast  booty  in  gold  and 
silver,  and  other  precious  things,  with  sumptuous  armor  and 
weapons.  When  the  spoil  was  divided  and  the  troops  were  re- 
freshed, Don  Fernan  Gonzalez  went  with  his  cavaliers  in  pious 
procession  to  the  hermitage  of  San  Pedro.  Here  he  gave  much 
silver  and  gold  to  the  worthy  Fray  Pelayo,  to  be  expended  in 
masses  for  the  souls  of  the  Christian  warriors  who  nad  fallen  in 
battle,  and  in  prayers  for  further  victories  over  the  infidels ; 
after  which  he  returned  in  triumph  to  his  capital  in  Burgos.* 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

OF  THE  MESSAGE  SENT  BY  THE  COUNT  TO  SANCHO  II.,  KING  OF 
NAVARRE,  AND  THE  REPLY. — THEIR  ENCOUNTER  IN  BATTLE. 

The  good  Count  of  Castile  was  so  inspirited  by  this  signal 
victory  over  the  Moors,  and  their  great  general  Almanzor, 
that  he  determined,  now  that  he  had  a breathing-spell  from 


* It  does  not  appear  that  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  kept  his  promise  of  founding  a 
church  and  monastery  on  the  site  of  the  hermitage.  The  latter  edifice  remained  to 
after  ages.  “It  stands,”  says  Sandoval,  “on  a precipice  overhanging  the  river 
Arlanza,  insomuch  that  it  inspires  dread  to  look  below.  It  is  extremely  ancient; 
large  enough  to  hold  a hundred  persons.  Within  the  chapel  is  an  opening  like  a 
chasm,  leading  down  to  a cavern  larger  than  the  church,  formed  in  the  solid  rock, 
with  a small  window  which  overlooks  the  river.  It  was  here  the  Christians  used  to 
conceal  themselves.” 

As  a corroboration  of  the  adventure  of  the  Count  of  Castile,  Sandoval  assures  us 
that  in  his  day  the  oak  still  existed  to  which  Don  Fernan  Gonzalez  tied  his  horse, 
when  he  alighted  to  scramble  up  the  hill  in  pursuit  of  the  boar.  The  worthy  Fray 
Agapida,  however,  needed  no  corroboration  of  the  kind,  swallowing  the  whole  story 
with  the  ready  credence  of  a pious  monk.  The  action  here  recorded  was  known 
by  the  name  of  the  battle  of  the  Ford  of  Cascajares. 

Sandoval  gives  a different  account  of  the  fate  of  the  hermits.  He  says  that  Al- 
manzor, in  a rage  at  their  prognostics,  overthrew  their  chapel,  and,  without  alight- 
ing from  his  horse,  ordered  the  three  monks  to  be  beheaded  in  his  presence.  “ This 
martyrdom,”  he  adds,  “ is  represented  in  an  ancient  painting  of  the  chapel  which 
still  exists.” 


24 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


Infidel  warfare,  to  redress  certain  grievances  sustained  from 
one  of  his  Christian  neighbors.  This  was  Don  Sancho  II., 
King  of  Navarre,  surnamed  Abarca,  either  from  the  abarcas  or 
shepherd-shoes  which  he  had  worn  in  early  life,  when  brought 
up  in  secrecy  and  indigence,  during  the  overthrow  of  his  coun- 
try by  the  Moors,  or  from  making  his  soldiers  wear  shoes  of 
the  kind  in  crossing  the  snowy  Pyrenees.  It  was  a name  by 
which  the  populace  delighted  to  call  him. 

This  prince  had  recovered  all  Navarre  from  the  infidels,  and 
even  subjected  to  his  crown  all  Biscay,  or  Cantabria,  and  some 
territory  beyond  the  Pyrenees,  on  the  confines  of  France.  Not 
content  with  these  acquisitions,  he  had  made  occasional  in- 
roads into  Castile,  in  consequence  of  a contest  respecting  the 
territories  of  Najarra  and  Pioxa,  to  which  he  laid  claim. 
These  incursions  he  repeated  whenever  he  had  peace  or  truce 
with  the  Moors.* 

Count  Fernan  Gonzalez,  having  now  time,  as  has  been  ob- 
served, to  attend  to  these  matters,  sent  an  ambassador  to 
King  Sancho,  charged  with  a courteous  but  resolute  message. 
“ I come,  Senor,”  said  the  ambassador  to  the  king,  “ by  com- 
mand of  the  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  of  Castile,  and  this  is 
what  I am  told  to  say.  You  have  done  him  much  wrong  in 
times  past,  by  leaguing  with  the  infidels  and  making  inroads 
into  his  territories  while  he  was  absent  or  engaged  in  war.  If 
you  will  amend  your  ways  in  this  respect,  and  remedy  the 
past,  you  will  do  him  much  pleasure;  but  if  you  refuse,  he 
sends  you  his  defiance.  ” 

King  Sancho  Abarca  was  lost  in  astonishment  and  indigna* 
tion  at  receiving  such  a message  from  a count  of  Castile. 
“Return  to  the  count,”  said  he,  “and  tell  him  I will  amend 
nothing ; that  I marvel  at  his  insolence,  and  hold  him  for  a 
madman  for  daring  to  defy  me.  Tell  him  he  has  listened  to 
evil  counsel,  or  a few  trifling  successes  against  the  Moors  have 
turned  his  brain ; but  it  will  be  very  different  when  I come  to 
seek  him,  for  there  is  not  town  or  tower  from  which  I will  not 
drag  him  forth.”  t 

The  ambassador  returned  with  this  reply,  nor  did  he  spare 
the  least  of  its  scorn  and  bitterness.  Upon  this  the  count  as- 
sembled his  cavaliers  and  councillors,  and  represented  the 


* Sandoval:  The  Five  Bishops.  Mariana,  lib.  8,  c.  5,  p.  367.  Cron.  Gen.  de  Eg 
pafia,  part  3,  c.  18,  fol.  53. 
t Cron.  Gen.  de  Espana,  ut  supra. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNAN  GONZALEZ. 


25 


case.  He  exhorted  them  to  stand  by  him  in  seeking  redress 
for  this  insult  and  injury  to  their  country  and  their  chieftain. 
“ We  are  not  equal  in  numbers  to  the  enemy , but  we  are  va- 
liant men,  united  and  true  to  each  other,  and  one  hundred 
good  lances,  all  in  the  hands  of  chosen  cavaliers,  all  of  one 
heart  and  mind,  are  worth  three  hundred  placed  by  chance  in 
the  hands  of  men  who  have  no  common  tie.”  The  cavaliers 
all  assured  him  they  would  follow  and  obey  him  as  loyal  sub- 
jects of  a worthy  lord,  and  would  prove  their  fealty  in  the  day 
of  battle. 

A little  army  of  staunch  Castilians  was  soon  assembled,  the 
silver  cross  was  again  reared  on  high  by  the  standard-bearer 
Orbita  Velasquez,  and  the  count  advanced  resolutely  a day’s 
journey  into  the  kingdom  of  Navarre,  for  his  maxim  was  to 
strike  quickly  and  sudden.  King  Sancho  wondered  at  his  dar- 
ing, but  hastened  to  meet  him  with  a greatly  superior  force. 
The  armies  came  in  sight  of  each  other  at  a place  called  the 
Era  de  Gollanda. 

The  count  now  addressed  his  men.  “ The  enemy,”  said  he, 
‘ ‘ are  more  numerous  than  we ; they  are  vigorous  of  body  and 
light  of  foot,  and  are  dexterous  in  throwing  darts.  They  will 
have  the  advantage  if  they  attack  us;  hut  if  we  attack  them 
and  close  manfully,  shall  get  the  field  of  them  before  they 
have  time  to  hurl  their  darts  and  wound  us.  For  my  part,  I 
shall  make  for  the  king.  If  I can  but  revenge  the  wrongs  of 
Castile  upon  his  person  I care  not  how  soon  I die.” 

As  the  armies  drew  near  each  other  the  Castilians,  true  to 
the  orders  of  their  chieftain,  put  up  the  war  cry,  ‘ 4 Castile ! 
Castile?”  and  rushing  forward,  broke  through  the  squadrons  of 
Navarre.  Then  followed  a fight  so  pitiless  and  deadly,  says  an 
old  chronicler,  that  the  strokes  of  their  weapons  resounded 
through  the  whole  country.  The  count  sought  King  Sancho 
throughout  the  whole  field;  they  met  and  recognized  each 
other  by  their  armorial  bearings  and  devices.  They  fought 
with  fury,  until  both  fell  from  their  horses  as  if  dead.  The 
Castilians  cut  their  way  through  the  mass  of  the  enemy,  and 
surrounded  their  fallen  chief.  Some  raised  him  from  the 
earth  while  others  kept  off  the  foe.  At  first  they  thought  him 
dead,  and  were  loud  in  their  lamentations ; but  when  the  blood 
and  dust  were  wiped  from  his  face  he  revived  and  told  them 
not  to  heed  him,  for  his  wounds  were  nothing ; but  to  press 
on  and  gain  the  victory,  for  he  had  slain  the  King  of  Navarre. 

At  hearing  this  they  gave  a great  shout  and  returned  to  the 


26 


MOORISH  cuiwmcLm 


fight ; but  those  of  Navarre,  seized  with  terror  at  the  fall  of 
their  king,  turned  their  backs  and  flod. 

The  count  then  caused  the  body  of  the  king  to  he  taken  from 
among  the  slain  and  to  be  conducted,  honorably  attended,  to 
Navarre.  Thus  fell  Sanclio  Abarca,  King  of  Navarre,  and  was 
succeeded  by  his  son  Don  Garcia,  surnamed  the  Trembler. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

HOW  THE  COUNT  OF  TOULOUSE  MAKES  A CAMPAIGN  AGAINST 
CASTILE,  AND  HOW  HE  RETURNS  IN  HIS  COFFIN. 

While  the  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  was  yet  ill  of  his  wounds 
in  his  capital,  and  when  his  soldiers  had  scarce  laid  by  their 
cuirasses  and  hung  up  their  shields  and  lances,  there  was  a 
fresh  alarm  of  war.  The  Count  of  Toulouse  and  Poictiers,  the 
close  friend  and  ally  of  King  Sancho  Abarca,  had  come  from 
France  with  a host  to  his  assistance,  but  finding  him  defeated 
and  slain,  raised  his  standard  to  make  a campaign,  in  his  re- 
venge, against  the  Castilians.  The  Navarrese  all  gathered 
round  him,  and  now  an  army  was  on  foot  more  powerful  than 
the  one  which  had  recently  been  defeated. 

Count  Fernan  Gonzalez,  wounded  as  he  was,  summoned  his 
troops  to  march  against  this  new  enemy ; but  the  war-worn 
Castilians,  vexed  at  being  thus  called  again  to  arms  before 
they  had  time  to  breathe,  began  to  murmur.  ‘ ‘ This  is  the 
life  of  the  very  devil,1’  said  they  “to  go  about  day  and  night, 
without  a moment’s  rest.  This  lord  of  ours  is  assuredly  Sa- 
tan himself,  and  we  are  lesser  devils  in  his  employ,  always 
busy  entrapping  the  souls  of  men.  He  has  no  pity  for  us  so 
battered  and  worn,  nor  for  himself,  so  badly  wounded.  It  is 
necessary  that  some  one  should  talk  with  him,  and  turn 
him  from  this  madness.” 

Accordingly  a hardy  cavalier,  Nuno  Laynez,  remonstrated 
\rith  the  count  against  further  fighting  until  he  should  be 
«£ured  of  his  wounds  and  his  people  should  have  time  to  repose ; 
tfor  mortal  men  could  not  support  this  kind  of  life.  “Nor  is 
this  urged  through  cowardice,  ” added  he,  4 ‘ for  your  men  are 
ready  to  fight  for  and  defend  you  as  they  would  their  own 
souls,” 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERN  AN  GONZALEZ. 


27 


“ Well  have  you  spoken,  Nuno  Laynez,”  replied  the  count; 
“ yet  for  all  this  I am  not  minded  to  defer  this  fight.  A day 
lost  never  returns.  An  opportunity  foregone  can  never  be 
recalled.  The  worrior  who  indulges  in  repose  will  never  leave 
the  memory  of  great  deeds  behind  him.  His  name  dies  when 
his  soul  leaves  the  body.  Let  us,  therefore,  make  the  most  of 
the  days  and  hours  allotted  us,  and  crown  them  with  such 
glorious  deeds  that  the  world  shall  praise  us  in  all  future  time.” 
When  Nuno  Laynez  repeated  these  generous  words  to  the 
cavaliers,  the  blood  glowed  in  their  veins,  and  they  prepared 
themselves  manfully  for  the  field ; nor  did  the  count  give  them 
time  to  cool  before  he  put  himself  at  their  head  and  marched 
to  meet  the  enemy.  He  found  them  drawn  up  on  the  opposite 
side  of  a river  which  was  swollen  and  troubled  by  recent 
rains.  Without  hesitation  he  advanced  to  ford  it,  but  his 
troops  were  galled  by  flights  of  darts  and  arrows  as  they 
crossed,  and  received  with  lances  on  the  water’s  edge;  the 
bodies  of  many  floated  down  the  turbid  stream,  and  many 
perished  on  the  banks.  They  made  good  their  crossing,  how- 
ever, and  closed  with  the  enemy.  The  fight  was  obstinate, 
and  the  Castilians  were  hardly  pressed,  being  so  inferior  in 
number,  Hon  Fernan  Gonzalez  galloped  along  the  front  of 
the  enemy.  “ Where  is  the  Count  of  Toulouse?”  cried  he; 
“let  him  come  forth  and  face  me, — me,  Fernan  Gonzalez  of 
Castille,  who  defy  him  to  single  combat !”  The  count  answered 
promptly  to  the  defiance.  No  one  from  either  side  presumed 
to  interfere  while  the  two  counts  encountered,  man  to  man 
and  horse  to  horse,  like  honorable  and  generous  cavaliers. 
They  rushed  upon  each  other  with  the  full  speed  of  their 
horses;  the  lance  of  Hon  Fernan  pierced  through  all  the 
armor  and  accoutrements  of  the  Count  of  Toulouse  and  bore 
him  out  of  the  saddle,  and  before  he  touched  the  earth  his 
soul  had  already  parted  from  his  body.  The  men  of  Toulouse, 
% seeing  their  chief  fall  dead,  fled  amain,  but  were  pursued,  and 
three  hundred  of  them  taken.”* 

The  field  being  won,  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  alighted  and 
took  off  the  armor  of  the  Count  of  Toulouse  with  his  own 
hands,  and  wrapped  him  in  a xemete,  or  Moorish  mantle,  of 
great  value,  which  he  had  gained  when  he  conquered  Almam 
zor.  He  ordered  a coffin  to  be  made,  and  covered  with  cloth 
of  gold,  and  studded  with  silver  nails,  and  he  put  therein  the 


* Cron.  Gen.  de  Espana. 


28 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


body  of  the  count,  and  delivered  ifc  to  the  captive  cavaliers, 
whom  he  released  and  furnished  with  money  for  their  ex- 
penses, making  them  swear  not  to  leave  the  body  of  the 
count  until  they  had  conducted  it  to  Toulouse.  So  the  count 
who  had  come  from  France  in  such  chivalrous  state,  at  tho 
head  of  an  array  of  shining  warriors,  returned  in  his  coffin 
with  a mourning  train  of  vanquished  cavaliers,  while  Count 
Fernan  Gonzalez  conducted  his  victorious  troops  in  triumph 
back  to  Burgos. 

This  signal  victory  took  place  in  the  year  of  our  Redemption 
926,  in  the  beginning  of  the  reign  of  Alfonso  the  Monk  on  the 
throne  of  Leon  and  the  Asturias.* 


CHAPTER  X. 

HOW  THE  COUNT  WENT  TO  RECEIVE  THE  HAND  OF  A PRINCESS, 
AND  WAS  THROWN  INTO  A DUNGEON.  — OF  THE  STRANGER 
THAT  VISITED  HIM  IN  HIS  CHAINS,  AND  OF  THE  APPEAL  THAT 
HE  MADE  TO  THE  PRINCESS  FOR  HIS  DELIVERANCE. 

Garcia  II.,  who  had  succeeded  to  the  throne  of  Navarre  on 
the  death  of  his  father,  was  brave  of  soul,  though  surnamed  El 
Tembloso,  or  The  Trembler.  He  was  so  called  because  he  was 
observed  to  tremble  on  going  into  battle ; but,  as  has  been  said 
of  others,  it  was  only  the  flesh  that  trembled,  foreseeing  the 
dangers  into  which  the  spirit  would  carry  it.  The  king  was 
deeply  grieved  at  the  death  of  his  father,  slain  by  Count 
Fernan  Gonzalez,  and  would  have  taken  vengeance  by  open 
warfare,  but  he  was  counselled  by  his  mother,  the  Queen 
Teresa,  to  pursue  a subtler  course.  At  her  instigation  over- 
tures were  made  to  the  count  to  settle  all  the  feuds  between 
Navarre  and  Castile  by  a firm  alliance,  and  to  this  end  it  was 
proposed  that  the  count  should  take  to  wife  Dona  Sancha,  the 
sister  of  King  Garcia  and  daughter  of  King  Sancho  Abarca. 
The  count  accepted  gladly  the  proffered  alliance,  for  he  had 
heard  of  the  great  merit  and  beauty  of  the  princess,  and  was 
pleased  with  so  agreeable  a mode  of  putting  an  end  to  all  their 
contests.  A conference  was  accordingly  appointed  between 


* Mariana,  lib.  8,  c.  5,  p.  367. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERN  AN  GONZALEZ.  29 

the  count  and  King  Garcia,  to  take  place  at  Ciruena,  each  to 
be  attended  only  by  five  cavaliers. 

The  count  was  faithful  to  his  compact,  and  appeared  at  the 
appointed  place  with  five  of  the  bravest  of  his  cavaliers ; but 
the  king  arrived  with  five-and-thirty  chosen  men,  all  armed 
cap-a-pie.  The  count,  suspecting  treachery,  retreated  with 
his  cavaliers  into  a neighboring  hermitage,  and,  barricading 
the  door,  defended  himself  throughout  the  day  until  night- 
fall. Seeing  there  was  no  alternative,  he  at  length  capitulated 
and  agreed  to  surrender  himself  a prisoner,  and  pay  homage 
to  the  king,  on  the  latter  assuring  him,  under  oath,  that  his 
life  should  be  secure.  King  Garcia  the  Trembler,  having  in 
this  wily  manner  gained  possession  of  the  count,  threw  him  in 
irons  and  conducted  him  prisoner  to  Navarre,  where  he  con- 
fined him  in  a strong  castle  called  Castro  Viejo.  At  his 
intercession,  however,  his  five  cavaliers  were  released,  and 
carried  back  to  Castile  the  doleful  tidings  of  his  captivity. 

Now  it  came  to  pass  that  a brave  Norman  count,  who  was 
performing  a pilgrimage  to  St.  Iago  of  Compostella,  heard  that 
the  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez,  whose  renown  had  spread  far  and 
wide,  lay  in  chains  in  Castro  Viejo.  Having  a vehement  de- 
sire to  see  the  man  of  whom  fame  had  spoken  so  loudly,  he  re- 
paired to  the  castle,  and  bribed  his  way  to  the  prison  of  the 
count.  When  he  entered  and  beheld  so  noble  a cavalier  in  a 
solitary  dungeon  and  in  chains,  he  was  sore  at  heart.  The 
count  looked  up  with  wonder  as  this  stranger  stood  before  him 
in  pilgrim  garb  and  with  sorrowful  aspect,  but  when  he  learned 
his  name  and  rank,  and  the  object  of  his  visit,  he  gave  him 
the  right  hand  of  friendship. 

The  pilgrim  count  left  the  castle  more  enamored  than  ever  of 
the  character  of  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez.  At  a festival  of  the 
court  he  beheld  the  Princess  Sancha,  who  had  served  as  a lure 
to  draw  the  good  count  into  the  power  of  his  enemies,  and  he 
found  her  of  surpassing  beauty,  and  of  a gentle  and  loving  de- 
meanor; so  he  determined  to  seek  an  opportunity  to  speak 
with  her  in  private,  for  surely,  thought  he,  in  such  a bosom 
must  dwell  the  soft  pity  of  womanhood.  Accordingly,  one  day 
as  the  princess  was  walking  in  the  garden  with  her  ladies,  he 
presented  himself  before  her  in  his  pilgrim’s  garb,  and  prayed 
to  speak  with  her  apart,  as  if  on  some  holy  mission.  And  when 
they  were  alone,  “How  is  this,  Princess,”  said  he,  “that  you 
are  doing  such  great  wrong  to  Heaven,  to  yourself,  and  to  all 
Christendom  ?”  The  princess  started,  and  said,  “What  wrong 


30 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


have  I done?”  Then  replied  the  pilgrim  count,  “ Behold,  for 
thy  sake  the  noblest  of  cavaliers,  the  pride  of  Spain,  the  flower 
of  chivalry,  the  hope  of  Christendom,  lies  in  a dungeon,  fettered 
with  galling  chains.  What  lady  but  would  be  too  happy  to  bo 
honored  with  the  love  of  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez ; and  thou 
hast  scorned  it ! How  will  it  tell  for  thy  fame  in  future  times, 
that  thou  wast  made  a snare  to  capture  an  honorable  knight ; 
that  the  gentlest,  the  bravest,  the  most  generous  of  cavaliers 
was  inveigled  by  the  love  of  thee  to  be  thrown  into  a dungeon? 
How  hast  thou  reversed  the  maxims  of  chivalry ! Beauty  has 
ever  been  the  friend  of  valor ; but  thou  hast  been  its  foe ! The 
fair  hands  of  lovely  dames  have  ever  bestowed  laurels  and  re- 
wards on  those  gallant  knights  who  sought  and  deserved  their 
loves ; thou  hast  bestowed  chains  and  a dungeon.  Behold,  the 
Moors  rejoice  in  his  captivity,  while  all  Christians  mourn. 
Thy  name  will  be  accursed  throughout  the  land  like  that  of 
Cava ; but  shouldst  thou  have  the  heroism  to  set  him  free,  thou 
wilt  be  extolled  above  all  Spanish  ladies.  Hadst  thou  but  seen 
him  as  I have  done, — alone,  abandoned,  enchained;  yet  so  no- 
ble, so  courteous,  so  heroic  in  his  chains,  that  kings  upon  their 
thrones  might  envy  the  majesty  of  his  demeanor.  If  thou 
could st  feel  love  for  man,  thou  shouldst  do  it  for  this  knight ; 
for  I swear  to  thee  on  this  cross  which  I bear,  that  never  was 
there  king  or  emperor  in  the  world  so  worthy  of  woman’s 
love.  ” When  the  pilgrim  count  had  thus  spoken,  he  left  the 
princess  to  meditate  upon  his  words. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

OF  THE  MEDITATIONS  OF  THE  PRINCESS,  AND  THEIR  RESULT.  — * 
HER  FLIGHT  FROM  THE  PRISON  WITH  THE  COUNT,  AND  PERILS 
OF  THE  ESCAPE.— THE  NUPTIALS. 

The  Princess  Sancha  remained  for  some  time  in  the  garden, 
revolving  in  her  mind  all  that  she  had  just  heard,  and  tender- 
ness for  the  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  began  to  awaken  in  her 
bosom ; for  nothing  so  touches  the  heart  of  woman  as  the  idea 
of  valor  suffering  for  her  sake.  The  more  the  princess  medi- 
tated the  more  she  became  enamored.  She  called  to  mind  all 
she  had  heard  of  the  illustrious  actions  of  the  count.  She 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERN  AN  GONZALEZ. 


31 


thought  upon  the  pictures  just  drawn  of  him  in  prison— so 
noble,  so  majestic  in  his  chains.  She  remembered  the  parting 
words  of  the  pilgrim  count — “ Never  was  there  king  nor  emperor 
so  worthy  of  a woman’s  love.”  u Alas!”  cried  she,  “ was  there 
ever  a lady  more  unfortunate  than  I?  All  the  love  and  devo- 
tion of  this  noble  cavalier  I might  have  had,  and  behold  it  has 
been  made  a mockery.  Both  he  and  myself  have  been  wronged 
by  the  treachery  of  my  brother.” 

At  length  the  passion  of  the  princess  arose  to  such  a height 
that  she  determined  to  deliver  the  count  from  the  misery  of 
which  she  had  been  the  instrument.  So  she  found  means  one 
night  to  bribe  the  guards  of  his  prison,  and  made  her  way  to 
his  dungeon.  When  the  count  saw  her,  he  thought  it  a beauti- 
ful vision,  or  some  angel  sent  from  heaven  to  comfort  him,  for 
certainly  her  beauty  surpassed  the  ordinary  loveliness  of 
woman. 

“ Noble  cavalier,”  said  the  princess,  “ this  is  no  time  for  idle 
words  and  ceremonies.  Behold  before  you  the  Princess  Bona 
Sancha ; the  word  which  my  brother  brake  I am  here  to  fulfil. 
You  came  to  receive  my  hand,  and,  instead,  you  were  thrown 
in  chains.  I come  to  yield  you  that  hand,  and  to  deliver  you 
from  those  chains.  Behold,  the  door  of  your  prison  is  open, 
and  I am  ready  to  fly  with  you  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  Swear 
to  me  one  word,  and  when  you  have  sworn  it,  I know  your 
loyalty  too  well  to  doubt  that  you  will  hold  your  oath  sacred. 
Swear  that  if  I fly  with  you,  you  will  treat  me  with  the  honor 
of  a knight ; that  you  will  make  me  your  wife,  and  never  leave 
me  for  any  other  woman.  ” 

The  count  swore  all  this  on  the  faith  of  a Christian  cavalier ; 
and  well  did  he  feel  disposed  to  keep  his  oath,  for  never  before 
had  he  beheld  such  glorious  beauty. 

So  the  princess  led  the  way,  for  her  authority  and  her  money 
had  conquered  the  fidelity  of  the  guards,  so  that  they  permitted 
the  count  to  sally  forth  with  her  from  the  prison. 

It  was  a dark  night,  and  they  left  the  great  road  and  climbed 
a mountain.  The  count  was  so  fettered  by  his  chains  that  he 
moved  with  difficulty,  but  the  princess  helped  and  sometimes 
almost  carried  him ; for  what  will  not  delicate  woman  perform 
when  her  love  and  pity  are  fully  aroused.  Thus  they  toiled  on 
their  way  until  the  day  dawned,  when  they  hid  themselves  in 
the  clifts  of  the  mountain,  among  rocks  and  thickets.  While 
thus  concealed  they  beheld  an  archpriest  of  the  castle,  mounted 
on  a mule  with  a falcon  on  his  fist,  hawking  about  the  lower 


32 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES, 


part  of  the  mountain.  The  count  knew  him  to  be  a base  and 
malignant  man,  and  watched  his  movements  with  great  anxiety. 
He  had  two  hounds  beating  about  the  bushes,  which  at  length 
got  upon  the  traces  of  the  count  and  princess,  and  discovering 
them,  set  up  a violent  barking.  Alighting  from  his  mule,  the 
archpriest  clambered  up  to  where  the  fugitives  were  concealed, 
lie  knew  the  count,  and  saw  that  he  had  escaped.  “Aha! 
traitor,”  cried  he,  drawing  his  sword,  “think  not  to  escape 
from  the  power  of  the  king.”  The  count  saw  that  resistance 
was  in  vain,  for  he  was  without  weapon  and  in  chains,  and  the 
archpriest  was  a powerful  man,  exceeding  broad  across  the 
shoulders ; he  sought  therefore  to  win  him  by  fair  words,  prom- 
ising that  if  he  would  aid  him  to  escape  he  would  give  him  a 
city  in  Castile,  for  him  and  his  heirs  forever.  But  the  arch- 
priest was  more  violent  than  ever,  and  held  his  sword  at  the 
breast  of  the  count  to  force  him  back  to  the  castle.  Upon  this 
the  princess  rushed  forward,  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes  im- 
plored him  not  to  deliver  the  count  into  the  hands  of  his  ene- 
mies. But  the  heart  of  the  priest  was  inflamed  by  the  beauty 
of  the  princess,  and  thinking  her  at  his  mercy,  44  Gladly,”  said 
he,  4 4 will  I assist  the  count  to  escape,  but  upon  one  condition. 
Then  he  whispered  a proposal  which  brought  a crimson  glow 
of  horror  and  indignation  into  the  cheeks  of  the  princess,  and 
he  would  have  laid  his  hand  upon  her,  but  he  was  suddenly 
lifted  from  the  earth  by  the  strong  grasp  of  the  count,  who 
bore  him  to  the  edge  of  a precipice  and  flung  him  headlong 
down ; and  his  neck  was  broken  in  the  fall. 

The  count  then  took  the  mule  of  the  archpriest,  his  hawk, 
and  his  hounds,  and  after  keeping  in  the  secret  parts  of  the 
mountain  all  day,  he  and  the  princess  mounted  the  mule  at 
night,  and  pursued  their  way,  by  the  most  rugged  and  unfre- 
quented passes,  toward  Castile. 

As  the  day  dawned  they  found  themselves  in  an  open  plain 
at  the  foot  of  the  mountains,  and  beheld  a body  of  horsemen 
riding  toward  them,  conducting  a car,  in  which  sat  a knight  in 
armor,  bearing  a standard.  The  princess  now  gave  all  up  for 
lost.  4 4 These,  ” said  she,  4 4 are  sent  by  my  brother  in  pursuit  of 
us;  how  can  we  escape,  for  this  poor  animal  has  no  longer 
strength  nor  speed  to  bear  us  up  the  mountains?”  Upon  this 
Count  Fernan  alighted,  and  drawing  the  sword  of  the  arch- 
priest, placed  himself  in  a narrow  pass.  44  Do  you,”  said  he  to 
the  princess,  4 4 turn  back  and  hasten  to  the  mountains,  and 
dearly  shall  it  cost  him  who  attempts  to  follow  you.”  4 4 Not 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERN  AN  GONZALEZ. 


33 


so,”  replied  the  princess;  “for  the  love  of  me  hast  thou  been 
brought  from  thine  own  domain  and  betrayed  into  all  these 
dangers,  and  I will  abide  to  share  them  with  thee.” 

The  count  would  have  remonstrated,  when  to  his  astonish- 
ment he  saw,  as  the  car  drew  near,  that  the  knight  seated  in 
it  was  clad  in  his  own  armor,  with  his  own  devices,  and  held 
his  own  banner  in  his  hand.  “Surely,”  said  he,  crossing  him- 
self, “this  is  enchantment;”  but  on  looking  still  nearer,  he  rec- 
ognized among  the  horsemen  Nuho  Sandias  and  Nuno  Laynez, 
two  of  his  most  faithful  knights.  Then  his  heart  leaped  for 
joy.  “Fear  nothing, ” cried  he  to  the  princess;  “behold  my 
standard,  and  behold  my  vassals.  Those  whom  you  feared 
as  enemies  shall  kneel  at  your  feet  and  kiss  your  hand  in 
homage.” 

Now  so  it  appears  that  the  tidings  of  the  captivity  of  the 
count  had  spread  mourning  and  consternation  throughout 
Castile,  and  the  cavaliers  assembled  together  to  devise  means 
for  his  deliverance.  And  certain  of  them  had  prepared  this 
effigy  of  the  count,  clad  in  his  armor  and  bearing  his  banner 
and  devices,  and  having  done  homage  and  sworn  fealty  to  it 
as  they  would  have  done  to  the  count  himself,  they  had  placed 
it  in  this  car  and  set  forth  with  it  as  a leader,  making  a vow, 
in  the  spirit  of  ancient  chivalry,  never  to  return  to  their 
homes  until  they  should  have  delivered  the  count  from  his 
captivity. 

When  the  cavaliers  recognized  the  count,  they  put  up  shouts 
of  joy,  and  kissed  his  hands  and  the  hands  of  the  princess  in 
token  of  devoted  loyalty.  And  they  took  off  the  fetters  of  the 
count  and  placed  him  in  the  car  and  the  princess  beside  him, 
and  returned  joyfully  to  Castile. 

Vain  would  be  the  attempt  to  describe  the  transports  of  the 
multitude  as  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  entered  his  noble  capital 
of  Burgos.  The  Princess  Sancha,  also,  was  hailed  with  bless- 
ings wherever  she  passed,  as  the  deliverer  of  their  lord  and  the 
saviour  of  Castile,  and  shortly  afterward  her  nuptials  with  the 
count  were  celebrated  with  feasting  and  rejoicing  and  tilts  and 
tournaments,  which  lasted  for  many  days. 


34 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

KINO  GARCIA  CONFINED  IN  BURGOS  BY  THE  COUNT. — THE  PRINCESS 

INTERCEDES  FOR  HIS  RELEASE. 

The  rejoicings  for  the  marriage  of  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez 
with  the  beautiful  Princess  Sancha  were  scarcely  finished 
when  King  Garcia  the  Trembler  came  with  a powerful  army 
to  revenge  his  various  affronts.  The  count  sallied  forth  to 
meet  him,  and  a bloody  and  doubtful  battle  ensued.  The 
Navarrese  at  length  were  routed,  and  the  king  was  wounded 
and  taken  prisoner  in  single  combat  by  Count  Fernan,  who 
brought  him  to  Burgos  and  put  him  in  close  confinement. 

The  Countess  Doha  Sancha  was  now  almost  as  much  afflicted 
at  the  captivity  of  her  brother  as  she  had  been  at  that  of  the 
count,  and  interceded  with  her  husband  for  his  release.  The 
count,  however,  retained  too  strong  a recollection  of  the  bad 
faith  of  King  Garcia  and  of  his  own  treacherous  and  harsh  im- 
prisonment to  be  easily  moved,  and  the  king  was  kept  in 
duress  for  a considerable  time.  The  countess  then  interested 
the  principal  cavaliers  in  her  suit,  reminding  them  of  the  ser- 
vices she  had  rendered  them  in  aiding  the  escape  of  their  lord. 
Through  their  united  intercessions  the  count  was  induced  to 
relent ; so  King  Garcia  the  Trembler  was  released  and  treated 
with  great  honor,  and  sent  back  to  his  dominions  with  a 
retinue  befitting  his  rank. 


i 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

OF  THE  EXPEDITION  AGAINST  THE  ANCIENT  CITY  CF  SYLO. — THE 
UNWITTING  TRESPASS  OF  THE  COUNT  INTO  A CONVENT,  AND 
HIS  COMPUNCTION  THEREUPON. 

Volumes  would  it  take  to  follow  the  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez 
in  his  heroic  achievements  against  the  infidels— achievements 
which  give  to  sober  history  almost  the  air  of  fable.  I forbear 
to  dwell  at  large  upon  one  of  his  campaigns,  wherein  he 
scoured  the  Valley  of  Laguna;  passed  victoriously  along  the 

<v-  **  rh 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERN  AN  GONZALEZ. 


35 


banks  of  the  Douro,  building  towers  and  castles  to  keep  the 
country  in  subjection;  how  he  scaled  the  walls  of  the  castle  of 
Ormaz,  being  the  first  to  mount,  sword  in  hand ; how  by  the 
valor  of  his  arm  he  captured  the  city  of  Orma ; how  he  took 
the  town  of  Sandoval,  the  origin  of  the  cavaliers  of  Sandoval, 
who  were  anciently  called  Salvadores ; how  he  made  an  inroad 
even  to  Madrid,  then  a strongly  fortified  village,  and  having 
taken  and  sacked  it,  returned  in  triumph  to  Burgos. 

But  it  would  he  wronging  the  memory  of  this  great  and 
good  cavalier  to  pass  in  silence  over  one  of  his  exploits  in 
which  he  gave  a singular  instance  of  his  piety.  This  was  in 
an  expedition  against  the  ancient  city  of  Sylo.  It  was  not  a 
place  of  much  value  in  itself,  being  situated  in  a cold  and 
sterile  country,  but  it  had  become  a stronghold  of  the  Moors, 
whence  they  carried  on  their  warfare.  This  place  the  count 
carried  by  assault,  entering  it  in  full  armor,  on  his  steed,  ove^T  - 
turning  and  slaying  all  who  opposed  him.  In  the  fury  of  his 
career  he  rode  into  a spacious  edifice  which  he  supposed  to  he 
a mosque,  with  the  pious  intention  of  slaying  every  infidel  he 
might  find  within.  On  looking  round,  however,  great  was  his 
astonishment  at  beholding  images  of  saints,  the  blessed  cross 
of  our  Saviour,  and  various  other  sacred  objects,  which  an- 
nounced a church  devoted  to  the  veritable  faith.  Struck  with 
remorse,  he  sprang  from  his  horse,  threw  himself  upon  his 
knees,  and  with  many  tears  implored  pardon  of  God  for  the 
sin  he  had  unknowingly  committed.  While  he  was  yet  on  his 
knees,  several  monks  of  the  order  of  St.  Dominic  approached, 
meagre  in  looks  and  squalid  in  attire,  but  hailing  him  with 
great  joy  as  their  deliverer.  In  sooth  this  was  a convent  of 
San  Sebastian,  the  fraternity  of  which  had  remained  captives 
among  the  Moors,  supporting  themselves  poorly  by  making 
baskets,  but  permitted  to  continue  in  the  exercise  of  their  reli- 
gion. 

Still  filled  with  pious  compunction  for  the  trespass  he  had 
made,  the  count  ordered  that  the  shoes  should  be  taken  from 
his  horse  and  nailed  upon  thG  door  of  the  church ; for  never, 
said  he,  shall  they  tread  any  other  ground  after  having  trod- 
den this  holy  place.  From  that  day,  we  are  told,  it  has  been 
the  custom  to  nail  the  shoes  of  horses  on  the  portal  of  that  con- 
vent—a custom  which  has  extended  to  many  other  places. 

The  worthy  Fray  Prudencia  de  Sandoval  records  a marvel- 
lous memento  of  the  expedition  of  the  count  against  this  city, 
which  remained,  he  says,  until  his  day.  Not  far  from  the 


36 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


place,  on  the  road  which  passes  by  Lara,  is  to  be  seen  the  print 
of  his  horse’s  hoofs  in  a solid  rock,  which  has  received  the  im- 
pression as  though  it  had  been  made  in  softened  wax.*  It  is 
to  be  presumed  that  the  horse’s  hoofs  had  been  gifted  with 
miraculous  hardness  in  reward  to  the  count  for  his  pious  obla- 
tion of  the  shoes. 


\ 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

OF  THE  MOORISH  HOST  THAT  CAME  UP  FROM  CORDOVA,  AND 
HOW  THE  COUNT  REPAIRED  TO  THE  HERMITAGE  OF  SAN 
PEDRO,  AND  PRAYED  FOR  SUCCESS  AGAINST  THEM,  AND  RE- 
CEIVED ASSURANCE  OF  VICTORY  IN  A VISION.  — BATTLE  OF 
HAZINAS. 

The  worthy  Fray  Antonia  Agapida,  from  whose  manu- 
scripts this  memoir  is  extracted,  passes  by  many  of  the  strik- 
ing and  heroic  deeds  of  the  count,  which  crowd  the  pages  of 
ancient  chroniclers;  but  the  good  friar  ever  is  sure  to  dwell 
with  delight  upon  any  of  those  miraculous  occurrences  which 
took  place  in  Spain  in  those  days,  and  which  showed  the 
marked  interposition  of  Heaven  in  behalf  of  the  Christian  war- 
riors in  their  battles  with  the  infidels.  Such  was  the  renowned 
battle  of  Hazinas,  which,  says  Agapida,  for  its  miraculous 
events  is  worthy  of  eternal  blazon. 

Now  so  it  was  that  the  Moorish  king  of  Cordova  had  sum- 
moned all  the  faithful,  both  of  Spain  and  Africa,  to  assist  him 
in  recovering  the  lands  wrested  from  him  by  the  unbelievers, 
and  especially  by  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  in  his  late  victories ; 
and  such  countless  legions  of  turbaned  warriors  were  assem- 
bled that  it  was  said  they  covered  the  plains  of  Andalusia  like 
swarms  of  locusts. 

Hearing  of  their  threatening  approach,  the  count  gathered 
together  his  forces  at  Piedrafita,  while  the  Moors  encamped  in 
Hazinas.  When,  however,  he  beheld  the  mighty  host  arrayed 
against  him,  his  heart  for  once  was  troubled  with  evil  fore- 
bodings, and,  calling  to  mind  the  cheering  prognostications  of 
the  friar  Pelayo  on  a like  occasion,  he  resolved  to  repair  again 


* Sandoval  p.  31& 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERN  AN  GONZALEZ. 


37 


to  that  holy  man  for  counsel.  Leaving  his  camp,  therefore, 
secretly,  he  set  out,  accompanied  by  two  cavaliers,  to  seek  the 
chapel  which  he  had  ordered  to  be  built  at  the  hermitage  of 
San  Pedro,  on  the  mountain  overhanging  the  river  Arlanza, 
but  when  arrived  there  he  heard  to  his  great  grief  that  the 
worthy  friar  was  dead. 

Entering  the  chapel,  however,  he  knelt  down  at  the  altar 
and  prayed  for  success  in  the  coming  fight ; humbly  represent- 
ing that  he  had  never,  like  many  of  the  kings  and  nobles  of 
Spain,  done  homage  to  the  infidels  and  acknowledged  them  for 
sovereigns.  The  count  remained  a long  time  at  prayer,  until 
sleep  gradually  stole  over  him ; and  as  he  lay  slumbering  be- 
fore the  altar,  the  holy  Fray  Pelayo  appeared  before  him  in  a 
vision,  clad  in  garments  as  white  as  snow.  4 ‘Why  sleepest 
thou,  Fernan  Gonzalez?”  said  he;  “arise,  and  go  forth,  and 
know  that  thou  shalt  conquer  those  Moors.  For,  inasmuch  as 
thou  art  a faithful  vassal  of  the  Most  High,  he  has  commanded 
the  Apostle  San  Iago  and  myself,  with  many  angels,  to  come 
to  thy  aid,  and  we  will  appear  in  the  battle  clad  in  white 
armor,  with  each  of  us  a red  cross  upon  our  pennon.  There- 
fore arise,  I say,  and  go  hence  with  a valiant  heart.” 

The  count  awoke,  and  while  he  was  yet  musing  upon  the 
vision,  he  heard  a voice,  saying,  “Arise,  and  get  thee  hence; 
why  dost  thou  linger?  Separate  thy  host  into  three  divisions: 
enter  the  field  of  battle  by  the  east,  with  the  smallest  division, 
and  I will  be  with  thee ; and  let  the  second  division  enter  by 
the  west,  and  that  shall  be  aided  by  San  Iago ; and  let  the  third 
division  enter  by  the  north.  Know  that  I am  San  Millan  who 
come  to  thee  with  this  message.” 

The  count  departed  joyfully  from  the  chapel,  and  returned 
to  his  army ; and  when  he  told  his  troops  of  this,  his  second 
visit  to  the  hermitage,  and  of  the  vision  he  had  had,  and  how 
the  holy  friar  San  Pelayo  had  again  assured  him  of  victory, 
their  hearts  were  lifted  up,  and  they  rejoiced  to  serve  under  a 
leader  who  had  such  excellent  counsellors  in  war. 

In  the  evening  preceding  the  battle,  Don  Fernan  Gonzalez 
divided  his  forces  as  he  had  been  ordered.  The  first  division 
was  composed  of  two  hundred  horsemen  and  six  thousand  in- 
fantry ; hardy  mountaineers,  light  of  foot  and  of  great  valor. 
In  the  advance  were  Don  Gustios  Gonzalez  of  Salas,  and  his 
seven  sons  and  two  nephews,  and  his  brother  Huy  Velasquez, 
.and  a valiant  cavalier  named  Gonzalo  Dias. 

The  second  division  was  Jed  by  Don  Lope  de  Biscaya, 


38 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


the  people  of  Burueba  and  Trevino,  and  Old  Castile  and  Castro 
and  the  Asturias.  Two  hundred  horsemen  and  six  thousand 
infantry. 

The  third  division  was  led  by  the  count  himself,  and  with 
him  went  Ruy  Cavia,  and  Nuho  Cavia,  and  the  Velascos* 
whom  the  count  that  day  dubbed  knights,  and  twenty 
esquires  of  the  count,  whom  he  had  likewise  knighted.  His 
division  consisted  of  four  hundred  and  fifty  horse  and  fifteen 
hundred  foot ; and  he  told  his  men  that  if  they  should  not  com 
quer  the  Moors  on  the  following  day,  they  should  draw  oil 
from  the  battle  when  he  gave  the  word.  Late  at  night,  when 
all  the  camp,  excepting  the  sentinels  and  guards,  were  buried 
in  sleep,  a light  suddenly  illumined  the  heavens,  and  a great 
serpent  was  seen  in  the  air,  wounded  and  covered  with  blood, 
and  vomiting  flames,  and  making  a loud  hissing  that  awakened 
all  the  soldiers.  They  rushed  out  of  their  tents,  and  ran 
hither  and  thither,  running  against  each  other  in  their  affright. 
Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  was  awakened  by  their  outcries,  but 
before  he  came  forth  the  serpent  had  disappeared.  He 
rebuked  the  terrors  of  his  people,  representing  to  them  that  the 
Moors  were  great  necromancers,  and  by  their  arts  could  raise 
devils  to  their  aid;  and  that  some  Moorish  astrologer  had 
doubtless  raised  this  spectrum  to  alarm  them;  but  he  bade 
them  be  of  good  heart,  since  they  had  San  Iago  on  their  side, 
and  might  set  Moor,  astrologer,  and  devil  at  defiance. 

In  the  first  day’s  fight  Don  Fernan  fought  hand  to  hand  with 
a powerful  Moor,  who  had  desired  to  try  his  prowess  with 
him.  It  was  an  obstinate  contest,  in  which  the  Moor  was 
slain ; but  the  count  was  so  badly  wounded  that  he  fell  to  the 
earth,  and  had  not  his  men  surrounded  and  defended  him,  he 
would  have  been  slain  or  captured.  The  battle  lasted  all  day 
long,  and  Gustios  Gonzalez  and  his  kindred  warriors  showed 
prodigies  of  valor.  Don  Fernan,  having  had  his  wounds 
stanched,  remounted  his  horse  and  galloped  about,  giving 
courage  to  his  men ; but  he  was  covered  with  dust  and  blood, 
and  so  hoarse  that  he  could  no  longer  be  heard.  The  sun 
went  down,  the  Moors  kept  on  fighting,  confiding  in  their 
great  numbers.  The  count,  seeing  the  night  approaching, 
ordered  the  trumpets  to  be  sounded,  and,  collecting  his  troops, 
made  one  general  charge  on  the  Moors,  and  drove  them  from 
the  field.  He  then  drew  off  his  men  to  their  tents,  where  the 
weary  troops  found  refreshment  and  repose,  though  they 
slept  all  night  on  their  arms. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERN  AN  GONZALEZ. 


39 


On  the  second  day  the  count  rose  before  the  dawn,  and  hav« 
in g attended  mass  like  a good  Christian,  attended  next  to  his 
horses,  like  a good  cavalier,  seeing  with  his  own  eyes  that  they 
were  well  fed  and  groomed,  and  prepared  for  the  field.  The 
battle  this  day  was  obstinate  as  the  day  before,  with  great 
valor  and  loss  on  either  side. 

On  the  third  day  the  count  led  forth  his  forces  at  an  early 
hour,  raising  his  silver  standard  of  the  cross,  and  praying  de- 
voutly for  aid.  Then  lowering  their  lances,  the  Castilians 
shouted  San  Iago ! San  Iago ! and  rushed  to  the  attack. 

Don  Gustios  Gonzalo  de  Salas,  the  leader  of  one  of  the  divi- 
sions, made  a lane  into  the  centre  of  the  Moorish  host,  dealing 
death  on  either  side.  He  was  met  by  a Moorish  cavalier  of 
powerful  frame.  Covering  themselves  with  their  shields,  they 
attacked  each  other  with  great  fury ; but  the  days  of  G-ustios 
Gonzalo  were  numbered,  for  the  Moor  slew  him,  and  with  him 
fell  a nephew  of  Count  Fernan,  and  many  of  his  principal  cav- 
aliers. 

Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  encountered  the  Moor  who  had  just 
slain  his  friend.  The  infidel  would  have  avoided  him,  having 
heard  that  never  man  escaped  alive  from  a conflict  with  him ; 
but  the  count  gave  him  a furious  thrust  with  his  lance,  which 
stretched  him  dead  upon  the  field. 

The  Moors,  however,  continued  to  press  the  count  sorely, 
and  their  numbers  threatened  to  overwhelm  him.  Then  he 
put  up  a prayer  for  the  aid  promised  in  his  vision,  and  of  a 
sudden  the  Apostle  San  Iago  appeared,  with  a great  and  shin- 
ing company  of  angels  in  white,  bearing  the  device  of  a red 
cross,  and  all  rushing  on  the  Moors.  The  Moors  were  dismayed 
at  the  sight  of  this  reinforcement  to  the  enemy.  The  Chris- 
tians, on  the  other  hand,  recovered  their  forces,  knowing  the 
Apostle  San  Iago  to  be  at  hand.  They  charged  the  Moors  with 
new  vigor,  and  put  them  to  flight,  and  pursued  them  for  two 
days,  killing  and  making  captive.  They  then  returned  and 
gathered  together  the  bodies  of  the  Christians  who  had  been 
slain,  and  buried  them  in  the  chapel  of  San  Pedro  of  Arlanza, 
and  in  other  hermitages.  The  bodies  of  the  Moors  were  piled 
up  and  covered  with  earth,  forming  a pile  which  is  still  to  be 
seen  on  the  field  of  battle. 

Some  have  ascribed  to  the  signal  worn  in  this  battle  by  the 
celestial  warriors  the  origin  of  the  Cross  of  Calatrava., 


40 


M001U8U  CUROmCLKS. 


CHAPTER  XY. 

THE  COUNT  IMPRISONED  BY  THE  KING  OF  LEON. — THE  COUNTESS 
CONCERTS  HIS  ESCAPE. — LEON  AND  CASTILE  UNITED  BY  THE 
MARRIAGE  OF  THE  PRINCE  ORDONO  WITH  URRACA,  THE  DAUGH- 
TER OF  THE  COUNT  BY  HIS  FIRST  WIFE. 

Not  long  after  this  most  renowned  and  marvellous  battle,  a 
Moorish  captain  named  Aceyfa  became  a vassal  of  the  Count 
Don  Fernan.  Under  his  protection,  and  that  of  a rich  and 
powerful  Castilian  cavalier  named  Diego  Munon,  he  rebuilt 
Salamanca  and  Ledesma,  and  several  places  on  the  river 
Tormes,  which  had  been  desolated  and  deserted  in  times  past. 

Ramiro  the  Second,  who  was  at  this  time  King  of  Leon,  was 
alarmed  at  seeing  a strong  line  of  Moorish  fortresses  erected 
along  the  borders  of  his  territories,  and  took  the  field  with  an 
army  to  drive  the  Moor  Aceyfa  from  the  land.  The  proud  spirit 
of  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  was  aroused  at  this  attack  upon  his 
Moorish  vassal,  which  he  considered  an  indignity  offered  to 
himself ; so  being  seconded  by  Don  Diego  Munon,  he  marched 
forth  with  his  chivalry  to  protect  the  Moor.  In  the  present 
instance  he  had  trusted  to  his  own  head,  and  had  neglected  to 
seek  advice  of  saint  or  hermit ; so  his  army  was  defeated  by 
King  Ramiro,  and  himself  and  Don  Diego  Munon  taken  pris- 
oner. The  latter  was  sent  in  chains  to  the  castle  of  Gordon ; 
but  the  count  was  carried  to  Leon,  where  he  was  confined  in  a 
tower  of  the  wall,  which  is  to  this  day  pointed  out  as  his 
prison.* 

All  Castile  was  thrown  into  grief  and  consternation  by  this 
event,  and  lamentations  were  heard  throughout  the  land,  as 
though  the  count  had  been  dead.  The  countess,  however,  did 
not  waste  time  in  idle  tears,  for  she  was  a lady  of  more  valiant 
spirit.  She  forthwith  assembled  five  hundred  cavaliers,  chosen 
men  of  tried  loyalty  and  devotion  to  the  count.  They  met  in 
the  chapel  of  the  palace,  and  took  an  oath  upon  the  Holy 
Evangelists  to  follow  the  countess  through  all  difficulties  and 


* In  the  Cronica  General  de  Espana,  this  imprisonment  is  said  to  have  been  by 
King  Sancho  the  Fat;  but  the  cautious  Agapida  goes  according  to  his  favorite  San- 
doval in  attributing  it  to  King  Ramiro,  and  in  so  doing  bo  is  supported  hy  tb# 
Chronicle  of  PJeda,  L 3*  c.  Id, 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNAN  GONZALEZ . 


41 


dangers,  and  to  obey  implicitly  all  her  commands  for  the 
rescue  of  their  lord.  With  this  band  the  countess  departed 
secretly  at  nightfall,  and  travelled  rapidly  until  morning,  when 
they  left  the  roads,  and  took  to  the  mountains,  lest  their  march 
should  be  discovered.  Arrived  near  Leon,  she  halted  her  band 
in  a thick  wood  in  the  mountain  of  Samosa  where  she  ordered 
them  to  remain  in  secrecy.  Then  clothing  herself  as  a pi] grim 
with  her  staff  and  pannier,  she  sent  word  to  King  Ramiro  that 
she  was  on  a pilgrimage  to  San  Iago,  and  entreated  that  she 
might  have  permission  to  visit  her  husband  in  his  prison.'" 
King  Ramiro  not  merely  granted  her  request,  but  sallied  forth 
above  a league  from  the  city  with  a great  retinue  to  do  her 
honor.  So  the  countess  entered  a second  time  the  prison  where 
the  count  lay  in  chains,  and  stood  before  him  as  his  protecting 
angel.  At  sight  of  him  in  this  miserable  and  dishonored  state, 
however,  the  valor  of  spirit  which  had  hitherto  sustained  her 
gave  way,  and  tears  flowed  from  her  eyes.  The  count  re- 
ceived her  joyfully,  and  reproached  her  with  her  tears;  “for 
it  becomes  us,”  said  he,  “to  submit  to  what  is  imposed  upon 
us  by  God.” 

The  countess  now  sent  to  entreat  the  king  that  while  she  re- 
mained with  the  count  his  chains  should  be  taken  off.  The 
king  again  granted  her  request ; and  the  count  was  freed  from 
his  irons  and  an  excellent  bed  prepared  in  his  prison. 

The  countess  remained  with  him  all  night  and  concerted  his 
escape.  Before  it  was  daylight  she  gave  him  her  pilgrim’s 
dress  and  staff,  and  the  count  went  forth  from  the  chamber 
disguised  as  his  wife.  The  porter  at  the  outer  portal,  thinking 
if  to  be  the  countess,  would  have  waited  for  orders  from  the 
king;  but  the  count,  in  a feigned  voice,  entreated  not  to  be  de* 
tained,  lest  he  should  not  be  able  to  perform  his  pilgrimage. 
The  porter,  mistrusting  no  deceit,  opened  the  door.  The  count 
issued  forth,  repaired  to  a place  pointed  out  by  the  countess, 
where  the  two  cavaliers  awaited  him  with  a fleet  horse.  They 
all  sallied  quietly  forth  from  the  city  at  the  opening  of  the 
gates,  until  they  found  themselves  clear  of  the  walls,  when 
they  put  spurs  to  their  horses  and  made  their  way  to  the 
mountain  of  Samosa.  Here  the  count  was  received  with 
shouts  of  joy  by  the  cavaliers  whom  the  countess  had  left  there 
in  concealment. 

As  the  day  advanced  the  keeper  of  the  prison  entered  the 
apartment  of  Don  Fernan,  but  was  astonished  to  find  there 
the  beautiful  countess  in  place  of  her  warrior  husband.  He 


42 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES . 


conducted  her  before  the  king,  accusing  her  of  the  fraud  by 
which  she  had  effected  the  escape  of  the  count.  King  Ramiro 
was  greatly  incensed,  and  he  demanded  of  the  countess  how 
she  dared  to  do  such  an  act.  “ I dared,”  replied  she,  “ because 
I saw  my  husband  in  misery,  and  felt  it  my  duty  to  relieve 
him ; and  I dared  because  I was  the  daughter  of  a king,  and 
the  wife  of  a distinguished  cavalier ; as  such  I trust  to  your 
chivalry  to  treat  me.” 

The  king  was  charmed  with  her  intrepidity.  “ Senora,”  said- 
he,  “you  have  acted  well  and  like  a noble  lady,  and  it  will  re- 
dound to  your  laud  and  honor.  ” So  he  commanded  that  she 
should  be  conducted  to  her  husband  in  a manner  befitting  a 
lady  of  high  and  noble  rank;  and  the  count  was  overjoyed  to 
receive  her  in  safety,  and  they  returned  to  their  dominions 
and  entered  Burgos  at  the  head  of  their  train  of  cavaliers, 
amidst  the  transports  and  acclamations  of  their  people.  And 
King  Ramiro  sought  the  amity  of  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez,  and 
proposed  that  they  should  unite  their  houses  by  some  matri- 
monial alliance  which  should  serve  as  a bond  of  mutual  se- 
curity. The  count  gladly  listened  to  his  proposals.  He  had  a 
fair  daughter  named  Urraca,  by  his  first  wife,  who  was  now 
arrived  at  a marriageable  age ; so  it  was  agreed  that  nuptials 
should  be  solemnized  between  her  and  the  Prince  Ordono,  son 
of  King  Ramiro;  and  all  Leon  and  Castile  rejoiced  at  this 
Union,  which  promised  tranquillity  to  the  land. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

MOORISH  INCURSION  INTO  CASTILE.  — BATTLE  OF  SAN  ESTEVAN.— 
OF  PASCUAL  VIVAS  AND  THE  MIRACLE  THAT  BEFELL  HIM. — » 
DEATH  OF  ORDONO  III. 

For  several  succeeding  years  of  the  career  of  this  most  re- 
doubtable cavalier,  the  most  edifying  and  praiseworthy  traces 
which  remain,  says  Fray  Antonio  Agapida,  are  to  be  found  in 
the  archives  of  various  monasteries,  consisting  of  memorials  of 
pious  gifts  and  endowments  made  by  himself  and  his  countess, 
Dona  Sancha. 

In  the  process  of  time  King  Ramiro  died,  and  was  succeeded 
by  his  son  Ordono  III.,  the  same  who  had  married  Urraca,  the 

V f * 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNAN  GONZALEZ. 


43 


daughter  of  Count  Fernan.  He  was  surnamed  the  Fierce, 
either  from  his  savage  temper  or  savage  aspect.  He  had  a 
step-brother  named  Don  Sancho,  nephew,  by  the  mother’s  side, 
of  King  Garcia  of  Navarre,  surnamed  the  Trembler.  This  Don 
Sancho  rose  in  arms  against  Ordono  at  the  very  outset  of  his 
reign,  seeking  to  deprive  him  of  his  crown.  He  applied  for 
assistance  to  his  uncle  Garcia  and  to  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez, 
and  it  is  said  both  favored  his  pretensions.  Nay,  the  count 
soon  appeared  in  the  field  in  company  with  King  Garcia  the 
Trembler,  in  support  of  Prince  Sancho.  It  may  seem  strange 
that  he  should  take  up  arms  against  his  own  son-in-law ; and 
so  it  certainly  appeared  to  Ordono  III.,  for  he  was  so  incensed 
against  the  count  that  he  repudiated  his  wife  Urraca  and  sent 
her  back  to  her  father,  telling  him  that  since  he  would  not  ac- 
knowledge him  as  king,  he  should  not  have  him  for  son-in-law. 

The  kingdom  now  became  a prey  to  civil  wars ; the  restless 
part  of  the  subjects  of  King  Ordono  rose  in  rebellion,  and 
everything  was  in  confusion.  King  Ordono  succeeded,  how- 
ever, in  quelling  the  rebellion,  and  defended  himself  so  ably 
against  King  Garcia  and  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez,  that  they  re- 
turned home  without  effecting  their  object. 

About  this  time,  say  the  records  of  Compostello,  the  sinful 
dissensions  of  the  Christians  brought  on  them  a visible  and 
awful  scourge  from  Heaven.  A great  flame,  or,  as  it  were,  a 
cloud  of  fire,  passed  throughout  the  land,  burning  towns,  de- 
stroying men  and  beasts,  and  spreading  horror  and  devastation 
even  over  the  sea.  It  passed  over  Zamora,  consuming  a great 
part  of  the  place ; it  scorched  Castro  Xerez  likewise,  and  Bre- 
biesco  and  Pan  Corvo  in  its  progress,  and  in  Burgos  one  hundred 
houses  were  consumed. 

“These,”  says  the  worthy  Agapida,  “were  fiery  tokens  01 
the  displeasure  of  Heaven  at  the  sinful  conduct  of  the  Chris- 
tians in  warring  upon  each  other,  instead  of  joining  their  arms 
like  brethren  in  the  righteous  endeavor  to  extirpate  the  vile  sect 
of  Mahomet.” 

While  the  Christians  were  thus  fighting  among  themselves, 
the  Moors,  taking  advantage  of  their  discord,  came  with  a great 
army,  and  made  an  incursion  into  Castile  as  far  as  Burgos. 
King  Ordono  and  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez,  alarmed  at  the 
common  danger,  came  to  a reconciliation,  and  took  arms  to- 
gether against  the  moors ; thougn  it  does  not  appear  that  the 
king  received  again  his  repudiated  wife  Urraca.  These  con- 
federate princes  gave  the  Moors  a great  battle  near  to  San 


44 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


Estevan.  “This  battle,”  says  Fray  Antonio  Agapida,  “is 
chiefly  memorable  for  a miracle  which  occurred  there,”  and 
which  is  recorded  by  the  good  friar  with  an  unction  and  perfect 
credence  worthy  of  a monkish  chronicler. 

The  Christians  were  incastellated  at  San  Estevan  de  Gormaz, 
which  is  near  the  banks  of  the  Douro.  The  Moors  had  posses- 
sion of  the  fortress  of  Gormaz,  about  a league  further  up  the 
river  on  a lofty  and  rocky  height. 

The  battle  commenced  at  the  dawn  of  day.  Count  Fernan 
Gonzalez,  however,  before  taking  the  field,  repaired  with  his 
principal  cavaliers  to  the  church,  to  attend  the  first  morning’s 
mass.  Now,  at  this  time,  there  was  in  the  service  of  the  count 
a brave  cavalier  named  Pascual  Vivas,  who  was  as  pious  as  he 
was  brave,  and  would  pray  with  as  much  fervor  and  obstinacy 
as  he  would  fight.  This  cavalier  made  it  a religious  rule  with 
himself,  or  rather  had  made  a solemn  vow,  that,  whenever  he 
entered  a church  in  the  morning,  he  would  on  no  account  leave 
it  until  all  the  masses  were  finished. 

On  the  present  occasion  the  firmness  of  this  brave  hut  pious 
cavalier  was  put  to  a severe  proof.  When  the  first  mass  was 
finished,  the  count  and  his  cavaliers  rose  and  sallied  from  the 
church  in  clanking  armor,  and  soon  after  the  sound  of  trumpet 
and  quick  tramp  of  steed  told  that  they  were  off  to  the  en- 
counter. Pascual  Vivas,  however,  remained  kneeling  all  in 
armor  before  the  altar,  waiting,  according  to  custom,  until  all 
the  masses  should  be  finished.  The  masses  that  morning  were 
numerous,  and  hour  after  hour  passed  away;  yet  still  the 
cavalier  remained  kneeling  all  in  armor,  with  weapon  in  hand, 
yet  so  zealous  in  his  devotion  that  he  never  turned  his  head. 

All  this  while  the  esquire  of  the  cavalier  was  at  the  door  of 
the  church,  holding  his  war-horse,  and  the  esquire  beheld  with 
surprise  the  count  and  his  warriors  depart,  while  his  lord  re- 
mained in  the  chapel ; and,  from  the  height  on  which  the  chapel 
stood,  he  could  see  the  Christian  host  encounter  the  Moors  at 
the  ford  of  the  river,  and  could  hear  the  distant  sound  of  trum- 
pets and  din  of  battle ; and  at  the  sound  the  war-horse  pricked 
up  his  ears,  snuffed  the  air,  and  pawed  the  earth,  and  showed 
all  the  eagerness  of  a noble  steed  to  be  among  the  armed  men, 
but  still  Pascual  Vivas  came  not  out  of  the  chapel.  The  es- 
quire was  wroth,  and  blushed  for  his  lord,  for  he  thought  it 
was  through  cowardice  and  not  piety  that  he  remained  in  the 
chapel  while  his  comrades  were  fighting  in  the  field. 

At  iength  the  masses  were  finished,  and  Pascual  Vivas  was 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNAN  GONZALEZ. 


45 


about  to  sally  forth  when  horsemen  came  riding  up  the  hill 
with  shouts  of  victory,  for  the  battle  was  over  and  the  Moors 
completely  vanquished. 

When  Pascual  Vivas  heard  this  he  was  so  troubled  in  mind 
that  he  dared  not  leave  the  chapel  nor  come  into  the  presence 
of  the  count,  for  he  said  to  himself,  “ Surely  I shall  be  looked 
upon  as  a recreant  knight,  who  have  hidden  myself  in  the  hour 
of  danger.”  Shortly,  however,  came  some  of  his  fellow-cava- 
liers, summoning  him  to  the  presence  of  the  count ; and  as  he 
went  with  a beating  heart,  they  lauded  him  for  the  valor  he 
had  displayed  and  the  great  services  he  had  rendered,  saying 
that  to  the  prowess  of  his  arm  they  owed  the  victory.  The  good 
knight,  imagining  they  were  scoffing  at  him,  felt  still  more 
cast  down  in  spirit,  and  entered  the  presence  of  the  count  cov- 
ered with  confusion.  Here  again  he  was  received  with  praises 
and  caresses,  at  which  he  was  greatly  astonished,  but  still 
thought  it  all  done  in  mockery.  When  the  truth  came  to  be 
known,  however,  all  present  were  filled  with  wonder,  for  it 
appeared  as  if  this  cavalier  had  been,  at  the  same  moment,  in 
the  chapel,  and  in  the  field ; for  while  he  remained  on  his  knees 
before  the  altar,  with  his  steed  pawing  the  earth  at  the  door,  a 
warrior  exactly  resembling  him,  with  the  same  arms,  device, 
and  steed,  had  appeared  in  the  hottest  of  the  fight,  penetrating 
and  overthrowing  whole  squadrons  of  Moors ; that  he  had  cut 
his  way  to  the  standard  of  the  enemy,  killed  the  standard- 
bearer,  and  carried  off  the  banner  in  triumph ; that  his  pour- 
point  and  coat  of  mail  were  cut  to  pieces,  and  his  horse  covered 
with  wounds;  yet  still  he  fought  on,  and  through  his  valor 
chiefly  the  victory  was  obtained. 

What  more  moved  astonishment  was  that  for  every  wound 
received  by  the  warrior  and  his  steed  in  the  field,  there  appeared 
marks  on  the  pourpoint  and  coat  of  mail  and  upon  the  steed  of 
Pascual  Vivas,  so  that  he  had  the  semblance  of  having  "been  in 
the  severest  press  of  the  battle. 

The  matter  was  now  readily  explained  by  the  worthy  friars 
who  followed  the  armies  in  those  days,  and  who  were  skilful 
in  expounding  the  miracles  daily  occurring  in  those  holy  wars. 
A miraculous  intervention  had  been  vouchsafed  to  Pascual 
Vivas.  That  his  piety  in  remaining  at  his  prayers  might  not 
put  him  to  shame  before  sinful  men,  an  angel  bearing  his  form 
and  semblance  had  taken  his  place  in  battle,  and  fought  while 
he  prayed. 

The  matter  being  thus  explained,  all  present  were  filled  with 


<!6 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


pious  admiration,  and  Pascual  Vivas,  if  lie  ceased  to  be  extolled 
as  a warrior,  came  near  being  canonized  as  a saint.* 

King  Ordono  III.  did  not  long  survive  this  battle.  Scarce 
had  he  arrived  at  Zamora  on  his  way  homeward,  when  he 
was  seized  with  a mortal  malady  of  which  he  died.  He  was 
succeeded  by  his  brother  Don  Sancho,  the  same  who  had  for' 
merly  endeavored  to  dispossess  him  of  his  throne. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

KING  SANCHO  THE  FAT. — OF  THE  HOMAGE  HE  EXACTED  FROM 
COUNT  FERNAN  GONZALEZ,  AND  OF  THE  STRANGE  BARGAIN 
THAT  HE  MADE  WITH  HIM  FOR  THE  PURCHASE  OF  HIS  HORSE 
AND  FALCON. 

King  Sancho  I.,  on  ascending  the  throne,  held  a cortes  at 
Leon,  where  all  the  great  men  of  the  kingdom  and  the  princes 
who  owed  allegiance  to  him  were  expected  to  attend  and  pay 
homage.  As  the  court  of  Leon  ivas  excessively  tenacious  of 
its  claim  to  sovereignty  over  Castile,  the  absence  of  Count 
Fernan  Gonzalez  was  noticed  with  great  displeasure  by  the 
king,  who  sent  missives  to  him  commanding  his  attendance. 
The  count  being  proud  of  heart,  and  standing  much  upon  the 
independence  of  Castile,  was  unwilling  to  kiss  the  hand  of  any 
one  in  token  of  vassalage.  He  was  at  length  induced  to  stifle 
his  repugnance  and  repair  to  the  court,  but  he  went  in  almost 
regal  style  and  with  a*  splendid  retinue,  more  like  a sovereign 
making  a progress  through  his  dominions. 

- As  he  approached  the  city  of  Leon,  King  Sancho  came  forth 
an  great  state  to  receive  him,  and  they  met  apparently  as 
friends,  but  there  was  enmity  against  each  other  in  their 
hearts. 

The  rich  and  gallant  array  with  which  Count  Fernan  made 


* Exactly  the  same  kind  of  miracle  is  recorded  as  happening  in  the  same  place  to 
a cavalier  of  the  name  of  Don  Fernan  Antolenez,  in  the  service  of  the  Count  Garcia 
Fernandez.  Fray  Antonio  Agapida  has  no  doubt  that  the  same  miracle  did  actually 
happen  to  both  cavaliers;  “for  in  those  days,”  says  he,  “ there  was  such  a demand 
for  miracles  that  the  same  had  frequently  to  be  repeated witness  the  repeated 
appearance  of  San  Iago  in  precisely  the  same  manner,  to  save  Christian  armies 
from  imminent  danger  of  defeat,  and  achieve  wonderful  victories  over  the  infidels* 
as  we  find  recorded  throughout  the  Spanish  chronicles. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERN  AN  GONZALEZ. 


47 


his  entry  in  Leon  was  the  theme  of  every  tongue ; but  nothing 
attracted  more  notice  than  a falcon  thoroughly  trained,  which 
he  carried  on  his  hand,  and  an  Arabian  horse  of  wonderful 
beauty,  which  he  had  gained  in  his  wars  with  the  Moors. 
King  Sancho  was  seized  with  a vehement  desire  to  possess  this 
horse  and  falcon,  and  offered  to  purchase  them  of  the  count. 
Don  Fernan  haughtily  declined  to  enter  into  traffic ; but  offered 
them  to  the  monarch  as  a gift.  The  king  was  equally  punc- 
tilious in  refusing  to  accept  a favor ; but  as  monarchs  do  not 
easily  forego  anything  on  which  they  have  set  their  hearts,  it 
became  evident  to  Count  Fernan  that  it  was  necessary,  for  the 
sake  of  peace,  to  part  wdth  his  horse  and  falcon.  To  save  his 
dignity,  however,  he  asked  a price  corresponding  to  his  rank ; 
for  it  was  beneath  a cavalier,  he  said,  to  sell  his  things  cheap, 
like  a mean  man.  He  demanded,  therefore,  one  thousand 
marks  of  silver  for  the  horse  and  falcon, — to  be  paid  on  a stip- 
ulated day ; if  not  paid  on  that  day  the  price  to  doubled  on  the 
next,  and  on  each  day’s  further  delay  the  price  should  in  like 
manner  be  doubled.  To  these  terms  the  king  gladly  consented, 
and  the  terms  were  specified  in  a written  agreement,  which 
was  duly  signed  and  witnessed.  The  king  thus  gained  the 
horse  and  falcon,  but  it  will  be  hereinafter  shown  that  this 
indulgence  of  his  fancy  cost  him  dear. 

This  eager  desire  for  an  Arabian  steed  appears  the  more  sin- 
gular in  Sancho  the  First,  from  his  being  so  corpulent  that  he 
could  not  sit  on  horseback.  Hence  he  is  commonly  known 
in  history  by  the  appellation  of  King  Sancho  the  Fat.  His 
unwieldy  bulk,  also,  may  be  one  reason  why  he  soon  lost  the 
favor  of  his  warrior  subjects,  who  looked  upon  him  as  a mere 
trencherman  and  bed-presser,  and  not  fitted  to  command  men 
who  lived  in  the  saddle,  and  had  rather  fight  than  either  eat 
or  sleep. 

King  Sancho  saw  that  he  might  soon  have  hard  fighting  to 
maintain  his  throne;  and  how  could  he  figure  as  a warrior 
who  could  not  mount  on  horseback?  In  his  anxiety  he  repaired 
to  his  uncle  G-arcia,  king  of  Navarre,  surnamed  the  Trembler, 
who  was  an  exceeding  meagre  man,  and  asked  counsel  of  him 
what  he  should  do  to  cure  himself  of  this  troublesome  corpu- 
lency. Garcia  the  Trembler  was  totally  at  a loss  for  a recipe, 
his  own  leanness  being  a gift  of  Nature ; he  advised  him,  how- 
ever, to  repair  to  Abderahman,  the  Miramamolin  of  Spain  and 
King  of  Cordova,  with  whom  he  was  happily  at  peace,  and 
consult  with  him,  and  seek  advice  of  the  Arabian  physicians 


48 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


resident  at  Cordova— the  Moors  being  generally  a spare  and 
active  people,  and  the  Arabian  physicians  skilful  above  all 
others  in  the  treatment  of  diseases. 

King  Sancho  the  Fat,  therefore,  sent  amicable  messages  be- 
forehand to  the  Moorish  miramamolin,  and  followed  them  as 
fast  as  his  corpulency  would  permit ; and  he  was  well  received 
by  the  Moorish  sovereign,  and  remained  for  a long  time  at 
Cordova,  diligently  employed  in  decreasing  his  rotundity. 

While  the  corpulent  king  was  thus  growing  leaner,  dis- 
content broke  out  among  his  subjects  at  home;  and  Count 
Fernan  Gonzalez,  taking  advantage  of  it,  stirred  up  an  in- 
surrection, and  placed  upon  the  throne  Leon  Ordoho  the 
Fourth,  surnamed  the  Bad,  who  was  a kinsman  of  the  late 
King  Ordono  III.,  and  he  moreover  gave  him  his  daughter  for 
wife— his  daughter  Urraca,  the  repudiated  wife  of  the  late 
king. 

If  the  good  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  supposed  he  had  fortified 
himself  by  this  alliance,  and  that  his  daughter  was  now  fixed 
for  the  second  time,  and  more  firmly  than  ever,  on  the  throne 
of  Leon,  he  was  grievously  deceived;  for  Sancho  I.  returned 
from  Cordova  at  the  head  of  a powerful  host  of  Moors,  and 
was  no  longer  to  be  called  the  Fat,  for  he  had  so  well  succeeded 
under  the  regimen  prescribed  by  the  miramamolin  and  his 
Arabian  physicians,  that  he  could  vault  into  the  saddle  with 
merely  putting  his  hand  upon  the  pommel. 

Ordoho  IV.  was  a man  of  puny  heart ; no  sooner  did  he  hear 
of  the  approach  of  King  Sancho,  and  of  his  marvellous  leanness 
and  agility,  than  he  was  seized  with  terror,  and  abandoning 
his  throne  and  his  twice-repudiated  spouse,  Urraca,  he  made 
for  the  mountains  of  Asturias,  or,  as  others  assert,  was  over- 
taken by  the  Moors  and  killed  with  lances. 


} 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

FURTHER  OF  THE  HORSE  AND  FALCON. 

King  Sancho  I. , having  re-established  himself  on  the  throne, 
and  recovered  the  good-will  of  his  subjects  by  his  leanness  and 
horsemanship,  sent  a stern  message  to  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez 
to  come  to  his  cortes,  or  resign  his  countship.  The  count  was 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERN  AN  GONZALEZ. 


49 


exceedingly  indignant  at  this  order,  and  feared,  moreover, 
that  some  indignity  or  injury  would  be  offered  him  should  he 
repair  to  Leon.  He  made  the  message  known  to  his  principal 
cavaliers,  and  requested  their  advice.  Most  of  them  were  of 
opinion  that  he  should  not  go  to  the  cortes.  Don  Fernan  de- 
clared, however,  that  he  would  not  act  disloyally  in  omitting 
to  do  that  which  the  counts  of  Castile  had  always  performed, 
although  he  felt  that  he  incurred  the  risk  of  death  or  imprison- 
ment. Leaving  his  son,  Garcia  Fernandez,  therefore,  in  charge 
of  his  counsellors,  he  departed  for  Leon  with  only  seven  cav- 
aliers. 

As  he  approached  the  gates  of  that  city,  no  one  came  forth 
to  greet  him,  as  had  always  been  the  custom.  This  he  con- 
sidered an  evil  sign.  Presenting  himself  before  the  king,  he 
would  have  kissed  his  hand,  but  the  monarch  withheld  it. 
He  charged  the  count  with  being  vainglorious  and  disloyal; 
with  having  absented  himself  from  the  cortes  and  conspired 
against  his  throne ; — for  all  which  he  should  make  atonement, 
and  should  give  hostages  or  pledges  for  his  good  faith  before  he 
left  the  court. 

The  count  in  reply  accounted  for  absenting  himself  from 
the  cortes  by  the  perfidious  treatment  he  had  formerly  experi- 
enced at  Leon.  As  to  any  grievances  the  king  might  have  to 
complain  of,  he  stood  ready  to  redress  them,  provided  the 
king  would  make  good  his  own  written  engagement,  signed 
with  his  own  hand  and  sealed  with  his  own  seal,  to  pay  for  the 
horse  and  falcon  which  he  had  purchased  of  the  count  on  his 
former  visit  to  Leon.  Three  years  had  now  elapsed  since  the 
day  appointed  for  the  payment,  and  in  the  mean  time  the 
price  had  gone  on  daily  doubling,  according  to  stipulation. 

They  parted  mutually  indignant ; and,  after  the  count  had 
retired  to  his  quarters,  the  king,  piqued  to  maintain  his  royal 
word,  summoned  his  major-domo,  and  ordered  him  to  take  a 
large  amount  of  treasure  and  carry  it  to  the  Count  of  Castile 
m payment  of  his  demand.  So  the  major-domo  repaired  to 
the  count  with  a great  sack  of  money  to  settle  with  him  for 
the  horse  and  hawk ; but  when  he  came  to  cast  up  the  account, 
and  double  it  each  day  that  had  intervened  since  the  appointed 
day  of  payment,  the  major-domo,  though  an  expert  man  at 
figures,  was  totally  confounded,  and,  returning  to  the  king, 
assured  him  that  all  the  money  in  the  world  would  not  suffice 
to  pay  the  debt.  King  Sancho  was  totally  at  a loss  how  to 
keep  his  word,  and  pay  off  a debt  which  was  more  than 


SO 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


enough  to  ruin  him.  Grievously  did  he  repent  his  first  ex- 
perience in  traffic,  and  found  that  it  is  not  safe  even  for  a 
monarch  to  trade  in  horses. 

In  the  mean  time  the  count  was  suffered  to  return  to  Castile ; 
but  he  did  not  let  the  matter  rest  here ; for,  being  sorely  in- 
censed at  the  indignities  he  had  experienced,  he  sent  missives 
to  King  Sancho,  urging  his  demand  of  payment  for  the  horse 
and  falcon— menacing  otherwise  to  make  seizures  by  way  of 
indemnification.  Receiving  no  satisfactory  reply,  he  made  a 
foray  into  the  kingdom  of  Leon,  and  brought  off  great  spoil  of 
sheep  and  cattle. 

King  Sancho  now  saw  that  the  count  was  too  bold  and 
urgent  a creditor  to  be  trifled  with.  In  his  perplexity  he  as- 
sembled the  estates  of  his  kingdom,  and  consulted  them  upon 
this  momentous  affair.  His  counsellors,  like  himself,  were 
grievously  perplexed  between  the  sanctity  of  the  royal  word 
and  the  enormity  of  the  debt.  After  much  deliberation  they 
suggested  a compromise — the  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  to  relin- 
quish the  debt,  and  in  lieu  thereof  to  be  released  from  his  vas- 
salage. 

The  count  agreed  right  gladly  to  this  compromise,  being 
thus  relieved  from  all  tribute  and  imposition,  and  from  the 
necessity  of  kissing  the  hand  of  any  man  in  the  world  as  his 
sovereign.  Thus  did  King  Sancho  pay  with  the  sovereignty 
of  Castile  for  a horse  and  falcon,  and  thus  were  thu  Castilians 
relieved,  by  a skilful  bargain  in  horse-dealing,,  from  all  subjec- 
tion to  the  kingdom  of  Leon.* 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  LAST  CAMPAIGN  OF  COUNT  FERNAN.  — HIS  DEATH. 

The  good  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez  was  now  stricken  in  years. 
The  fire  of  youth  was  extinct,  the  pride  and  ambition  of  man- 
hood were  over ; instead  of  erecting  palaces  and  lofty  castles, 
he  began  now  to  turn  his  thoughts  upon  the  grave  and  to  build 
his  last  earthly  habitation,  the  sepulchre. 

Before  erecting  his  own,  he  had  one  built  of  rich  and  stately 


* Cronica  de  Alonzo  el  Sabio,  pt.  3,  c.  19. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERN  AN  GONZALEZ. 


51 


workmanship  for  his  first  wife,  the  object  of  his  early  love, 
and  had  her  remains  conveyed  to  it  and  interred  with  great 
solemnity.  His  own  sepulchre,  according  to  ancient  promise, 
was  prepared  at  the  chapel  and  hermitage  of  San  Pedro  at 
Arlanza,  where  he  had  first  communed  with  the  holy  Friar 
Pelayo.  When  it  was  completed,  he  merely  inscribed  upon  it 
the  word  “ Obi jt,”  leaving  the  rest  to  be  supplied  by  others 
' after  his  death. 

When  the  Moors  perceived  that  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez, 
once  so  redoubtable  in  arms,  was  old  and  infirm,  and  given  to 
build  tombs  instead  of  castles,  they  thought  it  a favorable  time 
to  make  an  inroad  into  Castile.  They  passed  the  border,  there- 
fore, in  great  numbers,  laying  everything  waste  and  bearding 
the  old  lion  in  his  very  den. 

The  veteran  had  laid  by  his  sword  and  buckler,  and  had 
almost  given  up  the  world ; but  the  sound  of  Moorish  drum 
and  trumpet  called  him  back  even  from  the  threshold  of  the 
sepulchre.  Buckling  on  once  more  his  armor  and  bestriding 
his  war-steed,  he  summoned  around  him  his  Castilian  cava- 
liers, seasoned  like  him  in  a thousand  battles,  and  accompanied 
by  his  son  Garcia  Fernandez,  who  inherited  all  the  valor  of  his 
father,  issued  forth  to  meet  the  foe ; followed  by  the  shouts  and 
blessings  of  the  populace,  who  joyed  to  see  him  once  more  in 
arms  and  glowing  with  his  ancient  fire. 

The  Moors  were  retiring  from  an  extensive  ravage,  laden 
with  booty  and  driving  before  them  an  immense  cavalgada, 
when  they  descried  a squadron  of  cavaliers,  armed  all  in  steel, 
emerging  from  a great  cloud  of  dust,  and  bearing  aloft  the 
silver  cross,  the  well-known  standard  of  Count  Fernan  Gon- 
zalez. That  veteran  warrior  came  on,  as  usual,  leading  the 
way,  sword  in  hand.  The  very  sight  of  his  standard  had 
struck  dismay  into  the  enemy;  they  soon  gave  way  before 
one  of  his  vigorous  charges,  nor  did  he  cease  to  pursue  them 
until  they  took  shelter  within  the  very  walls  of  Cordova.  I 
Here  he  wasted  the  surrounding  country  with  fire  and  sword, 
and  after  thus  braving  the  Moor  in  his  very  capital,  returned 
triumphant  to  Burgos. 

“Such,”  says  Fray  Antonio  Agapida,  “was  the  last  cam- 
paign in  the  life  of  this  most  valorous  cavalier;”  and  now, 
abandoning  all  further  deeds  of  mortal  enterprise  in  arms  to 
his  son  Garcia  Fernandez,  he  addressed  all  his  thoughts,  as  be 
said,  to  prepare  for  his  campaign  in  the  skies.  He  still  talked 
as  a veteran  warrior,  whose  whole  life  had  been  passed  in 


52 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


arms,  but  his  talk  was  not  of  earthly  warfare  nor  of  earthly 
kingdoms.  Ho  spoke  only  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  and 
what  he  must  do  to  make  a successful  inroad  and  gain  an  eter- 
nal inheritance  in  that  blessed  country. 

He  was  equally  indefatigable  in  preparing  for  his  spiritual 
as  for  his  mortal  campaign.  Instead,  however,  of  mailed  war- 
riors tramping  through  his  courts,  and  the  shrill  neigh  of  steed 
or  clang  of  trumpet  echoing  among  their  walls,  there  were 
seen  holy  priests  and  barefoot  monks  passing  to  and  fro,  and 
the  halls  resounded  with  sacred  melody  of  litany  and  psalm. 
So  pleased  was  Heaven  with  the  good  works  of  this  pious 
cavalier,  and  especially  with  rich  donations  to  churches  and 
monasteries  which  he  made  under  the  guidance  of  his  spi- 
ritual counsellors,  that  we  are  told  it  was  given  to  him  to 
foresee  in  vision  the  day  and  hour  when  he  should  pass  from 
this  weary  life  and  enter  the  mansions  of  eternal  rest. 

Knowing  that  the  time  approached,  he  prepared  for  his  end 
like  a good  Christian.  He  wrote  to  the  kings  of  Leon  and 
Navarre  in  terms  of  great  humility,  craving  their  pardon  for 
all  past  injuries  and  offences,  and  entreating  them,  for  the 
good  of  Christendom,  to  live  in  peace  and  amity,  and  make 
common  cause  for  the  defence  of  the  faith. 

Ten  days  before  the  time  which  Heaven  had  appointed  for 
his  death  he  sent  for  the  abbot  of  the  chapel  and  convent  of 
Arlanza,  and  bending  his  aged  knees  before  him,  confessed  all 
his  sins.  This  done,  as  in  former  times  he  had  shown  great 
state  and  ceremony  in  his  worldly  pageants,  so  now  he  ar- 
ranged his  last  cavalgada  to  the  grave.  He  prayed  the  abbot 
to  return  to  his  monastery  and  have  his  sepulchre  prepared  for 
his  reception,  and  that  the  abbots  of  St.  Sebastian  and  Silos 
and  Quirce,  with  a train  of  holy  friars,  might  come  at  the 
appointed  day  for  his  body ; that  thus,  as  he  commended  his 
soul  to  Heaven  through  the  hands  of  his  confessor,  he  might, 
through  the  hands  of  these  pious  men,  resign  his  body  to  the 
earth. 

When  the  abbot  had  departed,  the  count  desired  to  be  left 
alone;  and  clothing  himself  in  a coarse  friar’s  garb,  he  re- 
mained in  fervent  prayer  for  the  forgiveness  of  his  sins.  As 
he  had  been  a valiant  captain  all  his  life  against  the  enemies  of 
the  faith,  so  was  he  in  death  against  the  enemies  of  the  soul. 
He  died  in  the  full  command  of  all  his  faculties,  making  no 
groans  nor  contortions,  but  rendering  up  his  spirit  with  the 
calmness  of  a heroic  cavalier. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNAN  GONZALEZ. 


53 


We  are  told  that  when  he  died  voices  were  heard  from 
heaven  in  testimony  of  his  sanctity,  while  the  tears  and  lamen- 
tations of  all  Spain  proved  how  much  he  was  valued  and  be- 
loved on  earth.  His  remains  were  conveyed,  according  to  his 
request,  to  the  monastery  of  St.  Pedro  de  Arlanza  by  a proces- 
sion of  holy  friars  with  solemn  chant  and  dirge.  In  the  church 
of  that  convent  they  still  repose ; and  two  paintings  are  to  be 
seen  in  the  convent — one  representing  the  count  valiantly 
fighting  with  the  Moors,  the  other  conversing  with  St.  Pelayo 
and  St.  Millan,  as  they  appeared  to  him  in  vision  before  the 
battle  of  Hazinas. 

The  cross  which  he  used  as  his  standard  is  still  treasured  up 
in  the  sacristy  of  the  convent.  It  is  of  massive  silver,  two  ells 
in  length,  with  our  Saviour  sculptured  upon  it,  and  above  the 
head,  in  Gothic  letters,  I.  N.  R.  I.  Below  is  Adam  awaking 
from  the  grave,  with  the  words  of  St.  Paul,  ‘ 4 Awake,  thou 
who  sleepest,  and  arise  from  the  tomb,  for  Christ  shall  give 
thee  life.” 

This  holy  cross  still  has  the  form  at  the  lower  end  by  which 
the  standard-bearer  rested  it  in  the  pommel  of  his  saddle. 

u Inestimable,”  adds  Fray  Antonio  Agapida,  “are  the  relics 
and  remains  of  saints  and  sainted  warriors.”  In  after  times, 
when  Fernando  the  Third,  surnamed  the  Saint,  went  to  the 
conquest  of  Seville,  he  took  with  him  a bone  of  this  thrice- 
blessed  and  utterly  renowned  cavalier,  together  with  his  sword 
and  pennon,  hoping  through  their  efficacy  to  succeed  in  his 
enterprise, — nor  was  he  disappointed;  but  what  is  marvellous 
to  hear,  but  which  we  have  on  the  authority  of  the  good 
Bishop  Sandoval,  on  the  day  on  which  King  Fernando  the 
Saint  entered  Seville  in  triumph,  great  blows  were  heard  to 
resound  within  the  sepulchre  of  the  count  of  Arlanza,  as  if 
veritably  his  bones  which  remained  behind  exulted  in  the 
victory  gained  by  those  which  had  been  carried  to  the  wars. 
Thus  were  marvellously  fulfilled  the  words  of  the  holy  psalm, 
— “ Exaltabant  ossa  humilitata.  ” * 

Here  ends  the  chronicle  of  the  most  valorous  and  renowned 
Don  Fernan  Gonzalez,  Count  of  Castile.  Laus  Deo . 

» — . 


* Sandoval,  p.  334. 


- 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  PARENTAGE  OF  FERNANDO. — QUEEN  BERENGUELA.— THE 
LARAS. — DON  ALVAR  CONCEALS  THE  DEATH  OF  KING  HENRY. — 
MISSION  OF  QUEEN  BERENGUELA  TO  ALFONSO  IX. — SHE  RE- 
NOUNCES THE  CROWN  OF  CASTILE  IN  FAVOR  OF  HER  SON 
FERNANDO. 

ft 

Fernando  III.,  surnamed  the  Saint,  was  the  son  of  Alfonso 
III.,  King  of  Leon,  and  of  Berenguela,  a princess  of  Castile; 
but  there  were  some  particulars  concerning  his  parentage 
which  it  is  necessary  clearly  to  state  before  entering  upon  his 
personal  history. 

Alfonso  III.  of  Leon,  and  Alfonso  IX.  King  of  Castile,  were 
cousins,  but  there  were  dissensions  between  them.  The  King 
of  Leon,  to  strengthen  himself,  married  his  cousin,  the  Princess 
Theresa,  daughter  of  his  uncle,  the  King  of  Portugal.  By  her 
he  had  two  daughters.  The  marriage  was  annulled  by  Pope 
Celestine  IH.  on  account  of  their  consanguinity,  and,  on  their 
making  resistance,  they  were  excommunicated  and  the  king- 
dom laid  under  an  interdict.  This  produced  an  unwilling  sep- 
aration in  1195.  Alfonso  III.  did  not  long  remain  single.  Fresh 
dissensions  having  broken  out  between  him  and  his  cousin 
Alfonso  IX.  of  Castile,  they  were  amicably  adjusted  by  his 
marrying  the  Princess  Berenguela,  daughter  of  that  monarch. 
This  second  marriage,  which  took  place  about  three  years  after 
the  divorce,  came  likewise  under  the  ban  of  the  Church,  and 
for  the  same  reason,  the  near  propinquity  of  the  parties.  Again 
the  commands  of  the  Pope  were  resisted,  and  again  the  refrac- 
tory parties  were  excommunicated  and  the  kingdom  laid  under 
an  interdict. 

The  unfortunate  King  of  Leon  was  the  more  unwilling  to  give 


56 


MOORISH  CnnONICLES. 


up  the  present  marriage,  as  the  Queen  Bcrenguela  had  made 
him  the  happy  father  of  several  children,  one  of  whom  he  hoped 
might  one  day  inherit  the  two  crowns  of  Leon  and  Castile. 

The  intercession  and  entreaties  of  the  bishops  of  Castile  so 
far  mollified  the  rigor  of  the  Pope,  that  a compromise  was 
made ; the  legitimacy  of  the  children  by  the  present  marriage 
was  not  to  be  affected  by  the  divorce  of  the  parents,  and  Fer- 
nando, the  eldest,  the  subject  of  the  present  chronicle,  was 
recognized  as  successor  to  his  father  to  the  throne  of  Leon. 
The  divorced  Queen  Berenguela  left  Fernando  in  Leon,  and  re- 
turned, in  1204,  to  Castile,  to  the  court  of  her  father,  Alfonso 
III.  Here  she  remained  until  the  death  of  her  father  in  1214, 
who  was  succeeded  by  his  son,  Enrique,  or  Henry  I.  The  latter 
being  only  in  his  eleventh  year,  his  sister,  the  ex-Queen  Beren- 
guela, was  declared  regent.  She  well  merited  the  trust,  for 
she  was  a woman  of  great  prudence  and  wisdom,  and  of  a reso- 
lute and  magnanimous  spirit. 

At  this  time  the  house  of  Lara  had  risen  to  great  power. 
There  were  three  brothers  of  that  turbulent  and  haughty  race, 
Don  Alvar  Nunez,  Don  Fernan  Nunez,  and  Don  Gonzalo  Nunez. 
The  Laras  had  caused  great  trouble  in  the  kingdom  during  the 
minority  of  Prince  Henry’s  father,  by  arrogating  to  themselves 
the  regency ; and  they  now  attempted,  in  like  manner,  to  get 
the  guardianship  of  the  son,  declaring  it  an  office  too  impor- 
tant and  difficult  to  be  entrusted  to  a woman.  Having  a pow- 
erful and  unprincipled  party  among  the  nobles,  and  using  great 
bribery  among  persons  in  whom  Berenguela  confided,  they  car- 
ried their  point ; and  the  virtuous  Berenguela,  to  prevent  civil 
commotions,  resigned  the  regency  into  the  hands  of  Don  Alvar 
Nunez  de  Lara,  the  head  of  that  ambitious  house.  First,  how- 
ever, she  made  him  kneel  and  swear  that  he  would  conduct 
himself  toward  the  youthful  king,  Enrique,  as  a thorough  friend 
and  a loyal  vassal,  guarding  his  person  from  all  harm ; that  he 
would  respect  the  property  of  individuals,  and  undertake 
nothing  of  importance  without  the  counsel  and  consent  of 
Queen  Berenguela.  Furthermore,  that  he  would  guard  and 
respect  the  hereditary  possessions  of  Queen  Berenguela,  left  to 
her  by  her  father,  and  would  always  serve  her  as  his  sovereign, 
the  daughter  of  his  deceased  king.  All  this  Don  Alvar  Nunez 
solemnly  swore  upon  the  sacred  evangelists  and  the  holy 
cross. 

No  sooner,  however,  had  he  got  the  young  king  in  his  power, 
than  he  showed  the  ambition,  rapacity,  and  arrogance  of  his 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT.  57 

nature.  He  prevailed  upon  the  young  king  to  make  him  a 
count ; he  induced  him  to  hold  cortes  without  the  presence  of 
Queen  Berenguela ; issuing  edicts  in  the  king’s  name,  he  ban- 
ished refractory  nobles,  giving  their  offices  and  lands  to  his 
brothers ; he  levied  exactions  on  rich  and  poor,  and,  what  is 
still  more  flagrant,  he  extended  these  exactions  to  the  Church. 
In  vain  did  Queen  Berenguela  remonstrate ; in  vain  did  the 
Dean  of  Toledo  thunder  forth  an  excommunication;  he  scoffed 
at  them  both,  for  in  the  king’s  name  he  persuaded  himself  he 
had  a tower  of  strength.  He  even  sent  a letter  to  Queen  Be- 
renguela in  the  name  of  the  young  king,  demanding  of  her  the 
castles,  towns,  and  ports  which  had  been  left  to  her  by  her 
father.  The  queen  was  deeply  grieved  at  this  letter,  and  sent 
a reply  to  the  king  that,  when  she  saw  him  face  to  face,  she 
would  do  with  those  possessions  whatever  he  should  command, 
as  her  brother  and  sovereign. 

On  receiving  this  message,  the  young  king  was  shocked  and 
distressed  that  such  a demand  should  have  been  made  in  his 
name;  but  he  was  young  and  inexperienced,  and  could  not 
openly  contend  with  a man  of  Don  Alvar’s  overbearing  char- 
acter. He  wrote  secretly  to  the  queen,  however,  assuring  her 
that  the  demand  had  been  made  without  his  knowledge,  and 
saying  how  gladly  he  would  come  to  her  if  he  could,  and  be 
relieved  from  the  thraldom  of  Don  Alvar. 

In  this  way  the  unfortunate  prince  was  made  an  instrument 
in  the  hands  of  this  haughty  and  arrogant  nobleman  of  inflict- 
ing all  kinds  of  wrongs  and  injuries  upon  his  subjects.  Don 
Alvar  constantly  kept  him  with  him,  carrying  him  from  place 
to  place  of  his  dominions,  wherever  his  presence  was  necessary 
to  effect  some  new  measure  of  tyranny.  He  even  endeavored 
to  negotiate  a marriage  between  the  young  king  and  some 
neighboring  princess,  in  order  to  retain  an  influence  over  him, 
but  in  this  he  was  unsuccessful. 

For  three  years  had  he  maintained  this  iniquitious  sway,  un- 
til one  day  in  1217,  when  the  young  king  was  with  him  at 
Palencia,  and  was  playing  with  some  youthful  companions  in 
the  court-yard  of  the  episcopal  palace,  a tile,  either  falling 
from  the  roof  of  a tower,  or  sportively  thrown  by  one  of  his 
companions,  struck  him  in  the  head,  and  inflicted  a wound  of 
which  he  presently  died. 

This  was  a fatal  blow  to  the  power  of  Don  Alvar.  To  secure 
himself  from  any  sudden  revulsion  in  the  popular  mind,  he 
determined  to  conceal  the  death  of  the  king  as  long  as  poe- 


58 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


sible,  and  gave  out  that  lie  had  retired  to  the  fortress  of 
Tariego,  whither  he  had  the  body  conveyed,  as  if  still  living. 
He  continued  to  issue  dispatches  from  time  to  time  in  the 
name  of  the  king,  and  made  various  excuses  for  his  non- 
appearance  in  public. 

Queen  Berenguela  soon  learned  the  truth.  According  to  the 
laws  of  Castile  she  was  heiress  to  the  crown,  but  she  resolved 
to  transfer  it  to  her  son  Fernando,  who,  being  likewise  ac- 
knowledged successor  to  the  crown  of  Leon,  would  unite  the 
two  kingdoms  under  his  rule.  To  effect  ’her  purpose  she 
availed  herself  of  the  cunning  of  her  enemy,  kept  secret  her 
knowledge  of  the  death  of  her  brother,  and  sent  three  of  her 
confidential  cavaliers,  Don  Lope  Diaz  de  Haro,  Senor  of  Bis- 
cay, and  Don  Gonzalo  Ruiz  Giron,  and  Don  Alonzo  Tellez  de 
Meneses,  to  her  late  husband,  Alfonso  IX.,  King  of  Leon,  who, 
with  her  son  Fernando,  was  then  at  Toro,  entreating  him  to 
send  the  latter  to  her  to  protect  her  from  the  tyranny  of  Don 
Alvar.  The  prudent  mother,  however,  forebore  to  let  King 
Alfonso  know  of  her  brother’s  death,  lest  it  might  awaken  in 
him  ambitious  thoughts  about  the  Castilian  crown. 

This  mission  being  sent,  she  departed  with  the  cavaliers  of 
her  party  for  Palencia.  The  death  of  the  King  Enrique  being 
noised  about,  she  was  honored  as  Queen  of  Castile,  and  Don 
Tello,  the  bishop,  came  forth  in  procession  to  receive  her.  The 
next  day  she  proceeded  to  the  castle  of  Duenas,  and,  on  its 
making  some  show  of  resistance,  took  it  by  force. 

The  cavaliers  who  were  with  the  queen  endeavored  to  effect 
a reconciliation  between  her  and  Don  Alvar,  seeing  that  the 
latter  had  powerful  connections,  and  through  his  partisans 
and  retainers  held  possession  of  the  principal  towns  and  for- 
tresses; that  haughty  nobleman,  however,  would  listen  to  no 
proposals,  unless  the  Prince  Fernando  was  given  into  his 
guardianship,  as  had  been  the  Prince  Enrique. 

In  the  mean  time  the  request  of  Queen  Berenguela  had  been 
granted  by  her  late  husband,  the  King  of  Leon,  and  her  son 
Fernando  hastened  to  meet  her.  The  meeting  took  place  at 
the  castle  of  Otiella,  and  happv  was  the  anxious  mother  once 
more  to  embrace  her  son.  At  her  command  the  cavaliers  m 
her  train  elevated  him  on  the  trunk  of  an  elm-tree  for  a throne, 
and  hailed  him  king  with  great  acclamations. 

They  now  proceeded  to  Valladolid,  which  at  that  time  was  a 
great  and  wealthy  town.  Here  the  nobility  and  chivalry  of 
Estremadura  and  other  parts  hastened  to  pay  homage  to  the 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT 


59 


queen.  A stage  was  erected  In  the  market-place,  where  the 
assembled  states  acknowledged  her  for  queen  and  svrore  fealty 
to  her.  She  immediately,  in  presence  of  her  nobles,  prelates, 
and  people,  renounced  the  crown  in  favor  of  her  son.  The  air 
rang  with  the  shouts  of  “Long  live  Fernando,  King  of  Cas- 
tile !”  The  bishops  and  clergy  then  conducted  the  king  in  state 
to  the  church.  This  was  on  the  31st  of  August,  1217,  and 
about  three  months  from  the  death  of  King  Enrique. 

Fernando  was  at  this  time  about  eighteen  years  of  age,  an 
accomplished  cavalier,  having  been  instructed  in  everything 
befitting  a prince  and  a warrior. 


CHAPTER  II. 

KING  ALFONSO  OF  LEON  RAVAGES  CASTILE.— CAPTIVITY  OF  DON 

ALVAR.— DEATH  OF  THE  LARAS. 

King  Alfonso  of  Leon  was  exceedingly  exasperated  at  the 
furtive  manner  in  which  his  son  Fernando  had  left  him,  with- 
out informing  him  of  King  Henry’s  death.  He  considered, 
and  perhaps  with  reason,  the  transfer  of  the  crown  of  Castile 
by  Berenguela  to  her  son,  as  a manoeuvre  to  evade  any  rights 
or  claims  which  he,  King  Alfonso,  might  have  over  her,  not- 
withstanding her  divorce ; and  he  believed  that  both  mother 
and  son  had  conspired  to  deceive  and  outwit  him ; and,  what 
was  especially  provoking,  they  had  succeeded.  It  was  natural 
for  King  Alfonso  to  have  become  by  this  time  exceedingly 
irritable  and  sensitive ; he  had  been  repeatedly  thwarted  in  his 
dearest  concerns;  excommunicated  out  of  two  wives  by  the 
Pope,  and  now,  as  he  conceived,  cajoled  out  of  a kingdom. 

In  his  wrath  he  flew  to  arms— a prompt  and  customary  re- 
course of  kings  in  those  days  when  they  had  no  will  to  consult 
but  their  own ; and  notwithstanding  the  earnest  expostulations 
and  entreaties  of  holy  men,  he  entered  Castile  with  an  army, 
ravaging  the  legitimate  inheritance  of  his  son,  as  if  it  had 
been  the  territory  of  an  enemy.  He  was  seconded  in  his  out- 
rages by  Count  Alvar  Nunez  de  Lara  and  his  two  bellicose 
brothers,  who  hoped  still  to  retain  power  by  rallying  under  his 
standard. 

There  were  at  this  time  full  two  thousand  cavaliers  with  the 
youthful  king,  resolute  men,  well  armed  and  well  appointed. 


60 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


and  they  urged  him  to  lead  them  against  the  King  of  Leon. 
Queen  Berenguela,  however,  interposed  and  declared  her  son 
should  never  be  guilty  of  the  impiety  of  taking  up  arms 
against  his  father.  By  her  advice  King  Fernando  sent  an 
embassy  to  liis  father,  expostulating  with  him,  and  telling 
him  that  he  ought  to  be  thankful  to  God  that  Castile  was  in 
the  hands  of  a son  disposed  at  all  times  to  honor  and  defend 
him,  instead  of  a stranger  who  might  prove  a dangerous  foe. 

King  Alfonso,  however,  was  not  so  t#  be  appeased.  By  the 
ambassadors  he  sent  proposals  to  Queen  Berenguela  that  they 
re-enter  into  wedlock,  for  which  he  would  procure  a dispensa- 
tion from  the  Pope;  they  would  then  be  jointly  sovereigns  of 
both  Castile  and  Leon,  and  the  Prince  Fernando,  their  son, 
should  inherit  both  crowns.  But  the  virtuous  Berenguela 
recoiled  from  this  proposal  of  a second  nuptials.  ‘ ‘ God  for- 
bid,” replied  she,  “that  I should  return  to  a sinful  marriage; 
and  as  to  the  crown  of  Castile,  it  now  belongs  to  my  son,  to 
whom  I have  given  it  with  the  sanction  of  God  and  the  good 
men  of  this  realm.” 

King  Alfonso  was  more  enraged  than  ever  by  this  reply, 
and  being  incited  and  aided  by  Count  Alvar  and  his  faction, 
he  resumed  his  ravages,  laying  waste  the  country  and  burn- 
ing the  villages.  He  would  have  attacked  Duenas,  but  found 
that  place  strongly  garrisoned  by  Diego  Lopez  de  Haro  and 
Euy  Diaz  de  los  Cameros ; he  next  marched  upon  Burgos,  but 
that  place  was  equally  well  garrisoned  by  Lope  Diez  de  Faro 
and  other  stout  Castilian  cavaliers ; so  perceiving  his  son  to  be 
more  firmly  seated  upon  the  throne  than  he  had  imagined,  and 
that  all  his  own  menaces  and  ravages  were  unavailing,  he  re- 
turned deeply  chagrined  to  his  kingdom. 

King  Fernando,  in  obedience  to  the  dictates  of  his  mother  as 
well  as  of  his  own  heart,  abstained  from  any  acts  of  retalia- 
tion on  his  father ; but  he  turned  his  arms  against  Munon  and 
Lerma  and  Lara,  and  other  places  which  either  belonged  to,  or 
held  out  for,  Count  Alvar,  and  having  subdued  them,  pro- 
ceeded to  Burgos,  the  capital  of  his  kingdom,  where  he  was 
received  by  the  bishop  and  clergy  with  great  solemnity,  and 
whither  the  nobles  and  chivalry  from  all  parts  of  Castile  has- 
tened to  rally  round  his  throne.  The  turbulent  Count  Alvar 
Nunez  de  Lara  and  his  brothers  retaining  other  fortresses  too 
strong  to  be  easily  taken,  refused  all  allegiance,  and  made  rav- 
aging excursions  over  the  country.  The  prudent  and  provi- 
dent Berenguela,  therefore,  while  at  Burgos,  seeing  that  the 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


61 


troubles  and  contentions  of  the  kingdom  would  cause  great 
expense  and  prevent  much  revenue,  gathered  together  all  her 
jewels  of  gold  and  silver  and  precious  stones,  and  all  her  plate 
and  rich  silks,  and  other  precious  things,  and  caused  them  to 
he  sold,  and  gave  the  money  to  her  son  to  defray  the  cost  of 
these  civil  wars. 

King  Fernando  and  his  mother  departed  shortly  afterward 
for  Palencia ; on  their  way  they  had  to  pass  by  Herrera,  which 
at  that  time  was  the  stronghold  of  Count  Alvar.  When  the 
king  came  in  sight,  Count  Fernan  Nunez,  with  his  battalions, 
was  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  but  drew  within  the  walls.  As 
the  king  had  to  pass  close  by  with  his  retinue,  he  ordered  his 
troops  to  be  put  in  good  order,  and  gave  it  in  charge  to  Alonzo 
Tellez  and  Suer  Tellez  and  Alvar  Kuyz  to  protect  the  flanks. 

As  the  royal  troops  drew  near,  Count  Alvar,  leaving  his 
people  in  the  town,  sallied  forth  with  a few  cavaliers  to  regard 
the  army  as  it  passed.  Affecting  great  contempt  for  the 
youthful  king  and  his  cavaliers,  he  stood  drawn  up  on  a 
rising  ground  with  his  attendants,  looking  down  upon  the 
troops  with  scornful  aspect,  and  rejecting  all  advice  to  retire 
into  the  town. 

As  the  king  and  his  immediate  escort  came  nigh,  their  at- 
tention was  attracted  to  this  little  body  of  proud  warriors 
drawn  up  upon  a bank  and  regarding  them  so  loftily;  and 
Alonzo  Tellez  and  Suer  Tellez,  looking  more  closely,  recognized 
Don  Alvar,  and  putting  spurs  to  their  horses,  dashed  up  the 
bank,  followed  by  several  cavaliers.  Don  Alvar  repented  of 
his  vain  confidence  too  late,  and  seeing  great  numbers  urging 
toward  him,  turned  his  reins  aad  retreated  toward  the  town. 
Still  his  stomach  was  too  high  for  absolute  flight,  and  the 
others,  who  spurred  after  him  at  full  speed,  overtook  him. 
Throwing  himself  from  his  horse,  he  covered  himself  with  his 
shield  and  prepared  for  defence.  Alonzo  Tellez,  however, 
called  to  his  men  not  to  kill  the  count,  but  to  take  him  pri- 
soner. He  was  accordingly  captured,  with  several  of  his  fol- 
lowers, and  borne  off  to  the  king  and  queen.  The  count  had 
everything  to  apprehend  from  their  vengeance  for  his  mis- 
deeds. They  used  no  personal  harshness,  however,  but  de- 
manded from  him  that  he  should  surrender  all  the  castles  and 
strong  places  held  by  the  retainers  and  partisans  of  his  brothers 
and  himself,  that  he  should  furnish  one  hundred  horsemen  to 
aid  in  their  recovery,  and  should  remain  a prisoner  until  those 
places  were  all  in  the  possession  of  the  crown. 


62 


MOOBLSn  CHRONICLES. 


Captivity  broke  the  haughty  spirit  of  Don  Alvar.  He  agreed 
to  those  conditions,  and  until  they  should  be  fulfilled  was  con- 
signed to  the  charge  of  Gonsalvo  Ruiz  Giron,  and  confined  in 
the  castle  of  Valladolid.  The  places  were  delivered  up  in  the 
course  of  a few  months,  and  thus  King  Fernando  became 
strongly  possessed  of  his  kingdom. 

Stripped  of  power,  state,  and  possessions,  Count  Alvar  and 
his  brothers,  after  an  ineffectual  attempt  to  rouse  the  King  of 
Leon  to  another  campaign  against  his  son,  became  savage 
and  desperate,  and  made  predatory  excursions,  pillaging  the 
country,  until  Count  Alvar  fell  mortally  ill  of  hydropsy. 
Struck  with  remorse  and  melancholy,  he  repaired  to  Toro  and 
entered  the  chivalrous  order  of  Santiago,  that  he  might  gain 
the  indulgences  granted  by  the  Pope  to  those  who  die  in  that 
order,  and  hoping,  says  an  ancient  chronicler,  to  oblige  God 
as  it  were,  by  that  religious  ceremony,  to  pardon  his  sins.  * 
His  illness  endured  seven  months,  and  he  was  reduced  to  such 
poverty  that  at  his  death  there  was  not  money  enough  left  by 
him  to  convey  his  body  to  Ucles,  where  he  had  requested  to  be 
buried,  nor  to  pay  for  tapers  for  his  funeral.  When  Queen 
Berenguela  heard  this,  she  ordered  that  the  funeral  should  be 
honorably  performed  at  her  own  expense,  and  sent  a cloth  of 
gold  to  cover  the  bier.f 

The  brother  of  Count  Alvar,  Don  Fernando,  abandoned  his 
country  in  despair  and  went  to  Marocco,  where  he  was  well 
received  by  the  miramamolin,  and  had  lands  and  revenues 
assigned  to  him.  He  became  a great  favorite  among  the 
Moors,  to  whom  he  used  to  recount  his  deeds  in  the  civil  wars 
of  Castile.  At  length  he  fell  dangerously  ill,  and  caused  him- 
self to  be  taken  to  a suburb  inhabited  by  Christians.  There 
happened  to  be  there  at  that  time  one  Don  Gonsalvo,  a knight 
of  the  order  of  the  Hospital  of  St.  Jean  d’Acre,  and  who  had 
been  in  the  service  of  Pope  Innocent  III.  Don  Fernando, 
finding  his  end  approaching,  entreated  of  the  knight  his  re- 
ligious habit  that  he  might  die  in  it.  His  request  was  granted, 
and  thus  Count  Fernando  died  in  the  habit  of  a Knight  Hos- 
pitaller of  St.  Jean  d’Acre,  in  Elbora,  a suburb  of  Marocco. 
His  body  was  afterward  brought  to  Spain,  and  interred  in  a 
town  on  the  banks  of  the  Pisuerga,  in  which  repose  likewise 
the  remains  of  his  wife  and  children. 


* Cronica  Gotica,  por  Don  Alonzo  Nunez  de  Castro,  p.  17. 
t Cronica  General  de  Espana,  pt.  3,  p.  370. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


63 


The  Count  Gonsalvo  Nunez  de  Lara,  the  third  of  these 
brothers,  also  took  refuge  among  the  Moors.  He  was  seized 
with  violent  disease  in  the  city  of  Baeza,  where  he  died.  His 
body  was  conveyed  to  Campos  a Zalmos,  which  appertained 
to  the  Friars  of  the  Temple,  where  the  holy  fraternity  gave 
it  the  rites  of  sepulture  with  all  due  honor.  Such  was  the 
end  of  these  three  brothers  of  the  once  proud  and  powerful 
house  of  Lara,  whose  disloyal  deeds  had  harassed  their  coun- 
try and  brought  ruin  upon  themselves. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MARRIAGE  OF  KING  FERNANDO. —CAMPAIGN  AGAINST  THE  MOORS. 
— ABEN  MOHAMED,  KING  OF  BAEZA,  DECLARES  HIMSELF  THB 
VASSAL  OF  KING  FERNANDO. — THEY  MARCH  TO  JAEN. — BURN- 
ING OF  THE  TOWER. — FERNANDO  COMMENCES  THE  BUILDING 
OF  THE  CATHEDRAL  AT  TOLEDO. 

King  Fernando,  aided  by  the  s&ge  counsels  of  his  mother, 
reigned  for  some  time  in  peace  and  quietness,  administering 
his  affairs  with  equity  and  justice.  The  good  Queen  Beren- 
guela  now  began  to  cast  about  her  eyes  in  search  of  a suit- 
able alliance  for  her  son,  and  had  many  consultations  with 
the  Bishop  Maurice  of  Burgos,  and  other  ghostly  counsellors, 
thereupon.  They  at  length  agreed  upon  the  Princess  Beatrix, 
daughter  of  the  late  Philip,  Emperor  of  Germany,  and  the 
Bishop  Maurice  and  Padre  Fray  Pedro  de  Arlanza  were  sent 
as  envoys  to  the  Emperor  Frederick  II.,  cousin  of  the  prin- 
cess, to  negotiate  the  terms.  An  arrangement  was  happily 
effected,  and  the  princess  set  out  for  Spain.  In  passing 
through  France  she  was  courteously  entertained  at  Paris  by 
King  Philip,  who  made  her  rich  presents.  On  the  borders  of 
Castile  she  was  met  at  Vittoria  by  the  Queen  Berenguela, 
with  a great  train  of  prelates,  monks,  and  masters  of  the  re- 
ligious orders,  and  of  abbesses  and  nuns,  together  with  a 
glorious  train  of  chivalry.  In  this  state  she  was  conducted 
to  Burgos,  where  the  king  and  all  his  court  came  forth  to 
receive  her,  and  their  nuptials  were  celebrated  with  great 
pomp  and  rejoicing. 

King  Fernando  lived  happily  with  his  fair  Queen  Beatrix, 


64 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


and  his  kingdom  remained  in  peace;  but  by  degrees  he  be- 
came impatient  of  quiet,  and  anxious  to  make  war  upon  the 
Moors.  Perhaps  he  felt  called  upon  to  make  some  signal  essay 
in  arms  at  present,  having,  the  day  before  his  nuptials,  been 
armed  a knight  in  the  monastery  of  Las  Huelgos,  and  in 
those  iron  days  knighthood  was  not  a matter  of  mere  parade 
and  ceremony,  but  called  for  acts  of  valor  and  proofs  of  stem 
endurance. 

The  discreet  Berenguela  endeavored  to  dissuade  her  son 
from  taking  the  field,  considering  him  not  of  sufficient  age. 
In  all  things  else  he  was  ever  obedient  to  her  counsels,  and 
even  to  her  inclinations,  but  it  was  in  vain  that  she  endeav- 
ored to  persuade  him  from  making  war  upon  the  infidels. 
“God,”  lie  would  say,  “had  put  into  his  hand  not  merely  a 
sceptre  to  govern,  but  a sword  to  avenge  his  country.” 

It  was  fortunate  for  the  good  cause,  moreover,  and  the 
Spanish  chroniclers,  that  while  the  queen-mother  was  endeav- 
oring to  throw  a damper  on  the  kindling  fire  of  her  son,  a 
worthy  prelate  was  at  hand  to  stir  it  up  into  a blaze.  This 
was  the  illustrious  historian  Rodrigo,  Archbishop  of  Toledo, 
who  now  preached  a crusade  against  the  Moors,  promising 
like  indulgences  with  those  granted  to  the  warriors  for  the 
Holy  Sepulchre.  The  consequence  was  a great  assemblage  of 
troops  from  all  parts  at  Toledo. 

King  Fernando  was  prevented  for  a time  from  taking  the 
field  in  person,  but  sent  in  advance  Don  Lope  Diaz  de  Haro 
and  Ruy  Gonsalvo  de  Giron  and  Alonzo  Tellez  de  Meneses, 
with  five  hundred  cavaliers  well  armed  and  mounted.  The 
very  sight  of  them  effected  a conquest  over  Aben  Mohamed, 
the  Moorish  king  of  Baeza,  insomuch  that  he  sent  an  em- 
bassy to  King  Fernando,  declaring  himself  his  vassal. 

When  King  Fernando  afterwards  took  the  field,  he  was 
joined  by  this  Moorish  ally  at  the  Navas  or  plains  of  Tolosa; 
who  was  in  company  with  him  when  the  king  marched  to 
Jaen,  to  the  foot  of  a tower,  and  set  fire  to  it,  whereupon  those 
Moors  who  remained  in  the  tower  were  burned  to  death,  and 
those  who  leaped  from  the  walls  were  received  on  the  points 
of  lances. 

Notwithstanding  the  burnt-offering  of  this  tower,  Heaven 
did  not  smile  upon  the  attempt  of  King  Fernando  to  reduce 
the  city  of  Jaen.  He  was  obliged  to  abandon  the  siege,  but 
consoled  himself  by  laying  waste  the  country.  He  was  more 
successful  elsewhere.  He  carried  the  strong  town  of  Priego 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNA  NDO  THE  SAINT. 


65 


by  assault,  and  gave  the  garrison  their  lives  on  condition  of 
yielding  up  all  their  property,  and  paying,  moreover,  eighty 
thousand  maravedis  of  silver.  For  the  payment  of  this  sum 
they  were  obliged  to  give  as  hostages  fifty-five  damsels  of 
great  beauty,  and  fifty  cavaliers  of  rank,  besides  nine  hundred 
of  the  common  people.  The  king  divided  his  hostages  among 
his  bravest  cavaliers  and  the  religious  orders ; but  his  vassal, 
the  Moorish  king  of  Baeza,  obtained  the  charge  of  the  Moor- 
ish damsels. 

The  king  then  attacked  Loxa,  and  his  men  sealed  the  walls 
and  burnt  the  gates,  and  made  themselves  masters  of  the 
place.  He  then  led  his  army  into  the  Vega  of  Granada,  the 
inhabitants  of  which  submitted  to  become  his  vassals,  and 
gave  up  all  the  Christian  captives  in  that  city,  amounting  to 
thirteen  hundred. 

Aben  Mohamed,  king  of  Baeza,  then  delivered  to  King  Fer- 
nando the  towers  of  Martos  and  Andujar,  and  the  king  gave 
them  to  Bon  Alvar  Perez  de  Castro,  and  placed  with  him 
Bon  Gonzalo  Ybafiez,  Master  of  Calatrava,  and  Tello  Alonzo 
Meneses,  son  of  Bon  Alonzo  Tellez,  and  other  stout  cavaliers, 
fitted  to  maintain  frontier  posts.  These  arrangements  being 
made,  and  having  ransacked  every  mountain  and  valley,  and 
taken  many  other  places  not  herein  specified,  King  Fernando 
returned  in  triumph  to  Toledo,  where  he  was  joyfully  received 
by  his  mother  Berenguela  and  his  wife  Beatrix. 

Clerical  historians  do  not  fail  to  record  with  infinite  satisfac- 
tion a single  instance  of  the  devout  and  zealous  spirit  which 
King  Fernando  had  derived  from  his  constant  communion 
with  the  reverend  fathers  of  the  Church.  As  the  king  was 
one  day  walking  with  his  ghostly  adviser  the  archbishop,  in 
the  principal  church  of  Toledo,  which  was  built  in  the  Moresco 
fashion,  having  been  a mosque  of  the  infidels,  it  occurred,  or 
more  probably  was  suggested  to  him,  that,  since  God  had 
aided  him  to  increase  his  kingdom,  and  had  given  him  such 
victories  over  the  enemies  of  his  holy  faith,  it  became  him  to 
rebuild  his  holy  temple,  which  was  ancient  and  falling  to 
decay,  and  to  adorn  it  richly  with  the  spoils  taken  from  the 
Moors.  The  thought  was  promptly  carried  into  effect.  The 
king  and  the  archbishop  laid  the  first  stone  with  great  solem- 
nity, and  in  the  fulness  of  time  accomplished  that  mighty 
cathedral  of  Toledo,  which  remains  the  wonder  and  admira- 
tion of  after  ages. 


66 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ASSASSINATION  OF  ABEN  MOHAMED.— HIS  HEAD  CARRIED  AS  A 
PRESENT  TO  ABULLALE,  THE  MOORISH  KING  OF  SEVILLE. — • 
ADVANCE  OF  THE  CHRISTIANS  INTO  ANDALUSIA.  — ABULLALE 
PURCHASES  A TRUCE. 

The  worthy  Fray  Antonio  Agapida  records  various  other 
victories  and  achievements  of  King  Fernando  in  a subsequent 
campaign  against  the  Moors  of  Andalusia;  in  the  course  of 
which  his  camp  was  abundantly  supplied  with  grain  by  his 
vassal  Aben  Mohamed,  the  Moorish  king  of  Baeza.  The  assist- 
ance rendered  by  that  Moslem  monarch  to  the  Christian  forces 
in  their  battles  against  those  of  his  own  race  and  his  own  faith, 
did  not  meet  with  the  reward  it  merited.  ‘ ‘ Doubtless,  ” says 
Antonio  Agapida,  ‘ 4 because  he  halted  half  way  in  the  right 
path,  and  did  not  turn  thorough  renegado.”  It  appears  that 
his  friendship  for  the  Christians  gave  great  disgust  to  his  sub- 
jects, and  some  of  them  rose  upon  him,  while  he  was  sojourn- 
ing in  the  city  of  Cordova,  and  sought  to  destroy  him.  Aben 
Mohamed  fled  by  a gate  leading  to  the  gardens,  to  take  shelter 
in  the  tower  of  Almodovar ; but  the  assassins  overtook  him, 
and  slew  him  on  a hill  near  the  tower.  They  then  cut  off  his 
head  and  carried  it  as  a present  to  Abullale,  the  Moorish  king 
of  Seville,  expecting  to  be  munificently  rewarded;  but  that 
monarch  gave  command  that  their  heads  should  be  struck  off 
and  their  bodies  thrown  to  the  dogs,  as  traitors  to  their  liege 
lords.* 

King  Fernando  was  grieved  when  he  heard  of  the  assassina- 
tion of  his  vassal,  and  feared  the  death  of  Aben  Mohamed 
might  lead  to  a rising  of  the  Moors.  He  sent  notice  to  Andu- 
jar,  to  Don  Alvar  Perez  de  Castro  and  Alonzo  Tellez  de  Mene- 
ses,  to  be  on  their  guard ; but  the  Moors,  fearing  punishment 
for  some  rebellious  movements,  abandoned  the  town,  and  it  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  king.  The  Moors  of  Martos  did  the  like. 
The  Alcazar  of  Baeza  yielded  also  to  the  king,  who  placed  in  it 
Don  Lope  Diaz  de  Haro,  with  five  hundred  men. 

Abullale,  the  Moorish  sovereign  of  Seville,  was  alarmed  at 


* Cron.  Gen.  de  Espafia,  pt.  4,  fol.  3?3. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


67 


seeing  the  advances  which  the  Christians  were  making  in  An- 
dalusia ; and  attempted  to  wrest  from  their  hands  these  newly 
acquired  places.  He  marched  upon  Martos,  which  was  not 
strongly  walled.  The  Countess  Doha  Yrenia,  wife  to  Don 
Alvar  Perez  de  Castro,  was  in  this  place,  and  her  husband 
was  absent.  Don  Tello  Alonzo,  with  a Spanish  force,  hastened 
to  her  assistance.  Finding  the  town  closely  invested,  he 
formed  his  men  into  a troop,  and  endeavored  to  cut  his  way 
through  the  enemy.  A rude  conflict  ensued;  the  cavaliers 
fought  their  way  forward,  and  Christian  and  Moor  arrived 
pell-mell  at  the  gate  of  the  town.  Here  the  press  was  exces- 
sive.  Fernan  Gomez  de  Pudiello,  a stout  cavalier,  who  bore 
the  pennon  of  Don  Tello  Alonzo,  was  slain,  and  the  same  fate 
would  have  befallen  Don  Tello  himself,  but  that  a company  of 
esquires  sallied  from  the  town  to  his  rescue. 

King  Abullale  now  encircled  the  town,  and  got  possession  of 
the  Pena,  or  rock,  which  commands  it,  killing  two  hundred 
Christians  who  defended  it. 

Provisions  began  to  fail  the  besieged,  and  they  were  reduced 
to  slay  their  horses  for  food,  and  even  to  eat  the  hides.  Don 
Gonsalvo  Ybanez,  master  of  Calatrava,  who  was  in  Baeza, 
hearing  of  the  extremity  of  the  place,  came  suddenly  with 
seventy  men  and  effected  an  entrance.  The  augmentation 
of  the  garrison  only  served  to  increase  the  famine,  without 
being  sufficient  in  force  to  raise  the  siege.  At  length  word 
was  brought  to  Don  Alvar  Perez  de  Castro,  who  was  with  the 
king  at  Guadalaxara,  of  the  imminent  danger  to  which  his 
wife  was  exposed.  He  instantly  set  off  for  her  relief,  accom- 
panied by  several  cavaliers  of  note,  and  a strong  force.  They 
succeeded  in  getting  into  Martos,  recovered  the  Pena,  or  rock, 
and  made  such  vigorous  defence  that  Abullale  abandoned  the 
siege  in  despair.  In  the  following  year  King  Fernando  led  his 
host  to  take  revenge  upon  this  Moorish  king  of  Seville ; but  the 
latter  purchased  a truce  for  one  year  with  three  hundred  thou- 
sand maravedis  of  silver.* 


* Cron.  Gen.  de  Yspafia,  pt.  4,  c.  ii, 


68 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


CHAPTER  V 

ABEN  ITUD. — ABULLALE  PURCHASES  ANOTHER  YEAR’S  TRUCE.— 
FERNANDO  HEARS  OF  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS  FATHER,  THE  KINO 
OF  LEON,  WHILE  PRESSING  THE  SIEGE  OF  JAEN.— HE  BECOMES 
SOVEREIGN  OF  THE  TWO  KINGDOMS  OF  LEON  AND  CASTILE. 

About  this  time  a valiant  sheik,  named  Aben  Abdallav 
Mohammed  ben  Hud,  but  commonly  called  Aben  Hud,  was 
effecting  a great  revolution  in  Moorish  affairs.  He  was  of  the 
lineage  of  Aben  Alfange,  and  bitterly  opposed  to  the  sect  of 
Almoliades,  who  for  a long  time  had  exercised  a tyrannical 
sway.  Stirring  up  the  Moors  of  Murcia  to  rise  upon  their  op- 
pressors, he  put  himself  at  their  head,  massacred  all  the  Almo- 
hades  that  fell  into  his  hands,  and  made  himself  sheik  or 
king  of  that  region.  He  purified  the  mosques  with  water, 
after  the  manner  in  which  Christians  purify  their  churches,  as 
though  they  had  been  defiled  by  the  Almohades.  Aben  Hud 
acquired  a name  among  those  of  his  religion  for  justice  and 
good  faith  as  well  as  valor ; and  after  some  opposition,  gained 
sway  over  all  Andalusia.  This  brought  him  in  collision  with 
King  Fernando  . . . 

(gjp  (Something  is  wanting  here.)  * 

laying  waste  fields  of  grain.  The  Moorish  sovereign  of  Seville 
purchased  another  year’s  truce  of  him  for  three  hundred  thou- 
sand maravedis  of  silver.  Aben  Hud,  on  the  other  hand,  col- 
lected a great  force  and  marched  to  oppose  him,  but  did  not 
dare  to  give  him  battle.  He  went,  therefore,  upon  Merida, 
and  fought  with  King  Alfonso  of  Leon,  father  of  King  Fernan- 
do, where,  however,  he  met  with  complete  discomfiture. 

In  the  following  year  King  Fernando  repeated  his  invasion 


* The  hiatus,  here  noted  by  the  author,  has  evidently  arisen  from  the  loss  of  a 
leaf  of  his  manuscript.  The  printed  line  which  precedes  the  parenthesis  concludes 
page  32  of  the  manuscript;  the  line  which  follows  it  begins  page  34.  The  interme- 
diate page  is  wanting.  I presume  the  author  did  not  become  conscious  of  his  loss 
until  he  had  resorted  to  his  manuscript  for  revision,  and  that  he  could  not  depend 
upon  his  memory  to  supply  what  was  wanting  without  a fresh  resort  to  authorities, 
not  at  hand.  Hence  a postponement  and  ultimate  omission.  The  missing  leaf  would 
scarce  have  filled  half  a page  of  print,  and,  it  would  seem  from  the  context,  must 
have  related  the  invasion  of  Andalusia  by  Fernando  and  the  ravages  commited 
by  bis  armies, — Ed. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  TIIE  SAINT. 


69 


of  Andalusia,  and  was  pressing  the  siege  of  the  city  of  Jaen, 
which  he  assailed  by  means  of  engines  discharging  stones, 
when  a courier  arrived  in  all  speed  from  his  mother,  informing 
him  that  his  father  Alfonso  was  dead,  and  urging  him  to  pro- 
ceed instantly  to  Leon,  to  enforce  his  pretensions  to  the  crown. 
King  Fernando  accordingly  raised  the  siege  of  Jaen,  sending 
his  engines  to  Martos,  and  repaired  to  Castile,  to  consult  with 
his  mother,  who  was  his  counsellor  on  all  occasions. 

It  appeared  that  in  his  last  will  King  Alfonso  had  named  his 
two  daughters  joint  heirs  to  the  crown.  Some  of  the  Leonese 
and  Gallegos  were  disposed  to  place  the  Prince  Alonzo,  brother 
to  King  Fernando,  on  the  throne ; but  he  had  listened  to  the 
commands  of  his  mother,  and  had  resisted  all  suggestions  ot 
the  kind ; the  larger  part  of  the  kingdom,  including  the  most 
important  cities,  had  declared  for  Fernando. 

Accompanied  by  his  mother,  King  Fernando  proceeded 
instantly  into  the  kingdom  of  Leon  with  a powerful  force. 
Wherever  they  went  the  cities  threw  open  their  gates  to  them. 
The  princesses  Doha  Sancha  and  Doha  Dulce,  with  their 
mother  Theresa,  would  have  assembled  a force  to  oppose  them, 
but  the  prelates  were  all  in  favor  of  King  Fernando.  On  his 
approach  to  Leon,  the  bishops  and  clergy  and  all  the  principal 
inhabitants  came  forth  to  receive  him,  and  conducted  him  to 
the  cathedral,  where  he  received  their  homage,  and  was  pro- 
claimed king,  with  the  Te  Deums  of  the  choir  and  the  shouts 
of  the  people. 

Dona  Theresa,  who,  with  her  daughters,  was  in  Gallicia,  find- 
ing the  kingdom  thus  disposed  of,  sent  to  demand  provision 
tor  herself  and  the  two  princesses,  who  in  fact  were  step- 
sisters of  King  Fernando.  Queen  Berenguela,  though  she  had 
some  reason  not  to  feel  kindly  disposed  toward  Dona  Theresa, 
who  she  might  think  had  been  exercising  a secret  influence 
over  her  late  husband,  yet  suppressed  all  such  feelings,  and 
undertook  to  repair  in  person  to  Gallicia,  and  negotiate  this 
singular  family  question.  She  had  an  interview  with  Queen 
Theresa  at  Valencia  de  Merlio  in  Gallicia,  and  arranged  a noble 
dower  for  her,  and  an  annual  revenue  to  each  of  her  daughters 
of  thirty  thousand  maravedis  of  gold.  The  king  then  had  a 
meeting  with  his  sisters  at  Benevente,  where  they  resigned  all 
pretensions  to  the  throne.  All  the  fortified  places  which  held 
owfc  for  them  were  given  up,  and  thus  Fernando  became  undis- 
puted sovereign  of  the  two  kingdoms  of  Castile  and  Leon. 


70 


M001US1I  CUltomCLEb. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

EXPEDITION  OF  TIIE  PRINCE  ALONZO  AGAINST  THE  MOORS. — EN 
CAMPS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  GUADALETE. — ABEN  HUD  MARCHES 
OUT  FROM  XEREZ  AND  GIVES  BATTLE. — PROWESS  OF  GARCIA 
PEREZ  DE  VARGAS. — FLIGHT  AND  PURSUIT  OF  THE  MOORS. — 
MIRACLE  OF  THE  BLESSED  SANTIAGO. 

King  Fernando  III. , having,  through  the  sage  counsel  and 
judicious  management  of  his  mother,  made  this  amicable 
agreement  with  his  step-sisters,  by  which  he  gained  possession 
of  their  inheritance,  now  found  his  territories  to  extend  from 
the  Bay  of  Biscay  to  the  vicinity  of  the  Guadalquivir,  and  from 
the  borders  of  Portugal  to  those  of  Aragon  and  Valencia;  and 
in  addition  to  his  title  of  King  of  Castile  and  Leon,  called  him- 
self King  of  Spain  by  seigniorial  right.  Being  at  peace  with  all 
his  Christian  neighbors,  he  now  prepared  to  carry  on,  with 
more  zeal  and  vigor  than  ever,  his  holy  wars  against  the 
infidels.  While  making  a progress,  however,  through  his 
dominions,  administering  justice,  he  sent  his  brother,  the 
Prince  Alonzo,  to  make  an  expedition  into  the  country  of  the 
Moors,  and  to  attack  the  newly  risen  power  of  A ben  Hud. 

As  the  Prince  Alonzo  was  young  and  of  little  experience,  the 
king  sent  Hon  Alvar  Perez  de  Castro,  the  Castilian,  with  him 
as  captain,  he  being  stout  of  heart,  strong  of  hand,  and  skilled 
in  war.  The  prince  and  his  captain  went  from  Salamanca  to 
Toledo,  where  they  recruited  their  force  with  a troop  of  cav- 
alry. Thence  they  proceeded  to  Andujar,  where  they  sent  out 
corredores,  or  light  foraging  troops,  who  laid  waste  the 
country,  plundering  and  destroying  and  bringing  off  great 
booty.  Thence  they  directed  their  ravaging  course  toward 
Cordova,  assaulted  and  carried  Palma,  and  put  all  its  inhabi- 
tants to  the  sword.  Following  the  fertile  valley  of  the  Gua- 
dalquivir, they  scoured  the  vicinity  of  Seville,  and  continued 
onward  for  Xerez,  sweeping  off  cattle  and  sheep  from  the 
pastures  of  Andalusia;  driving  on  long  cavalgadas  of  horses 
and  mules  laden  with  spoil ; until  the  earth  shook  with  the 
tramping  of  their  feet,  and  their  course  was  marked  by  clouds 
of  dust  and  the  smoke  of  burning  villages. 

In  this  desolating  foray  they  were  joined  by  two  hundred 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  TIIE  SAINT.  7l 

horse  and  three  hundred  foot,  Moorish  allies,  or  rather  vassals, 
being  led  by  the  son  of  Aben  Mohamed,  the  king  of  Baeza. 

Arrived  within  sight  of  Xerez,  they  pitched  their  tents  on 
the  banks  of  the  Guadalete— that  fatal  river,  sadly  renowned 
in  the  annals  of  Spain  for  the  overthrow  of  Roderick  and  the 
perdition  of  the  kingdom. 

Here  a good  watch  was  set  over  the  captured  flocks  and 
herds  which  covered  the  adjacent  meadows,  while  the  soldiers, 
fatigued  with  ravage,  gave  themselves  up  to  repose  on  the 
banks  of  the  river,  or  indulged  in  feasting  and  revelry,  or 
gambled  with  each  other  for  their  booty. 

In  the  meantime  Aben  Hud,  hearing  of  this  inroad,  sum- 
moned all  his  chivalry  of  the  seaboard  of  Andalusia  to  meet 
him  in  Xerez.  They  hastened  to  obey  his  call ; every  leader 
spurred  for  Xerez  with  his  band  of  vassals.  Thither  came  also 
the  king  of  the  Azules,  with  seven  hundred  horsemen,  Moors 
of  Africa,  light,  vigorous,  and  active ; and  the  city  was  full  of 
troops. 

The  camp  of  Don  Alonzo  had  a formidable  appearance  at  a 
distance,  from  the  flocks  and  herds  which  surrounded  it,  the 
vast  number  of  sumpter  mules,  and  the  numerous  captives; 
but  when  Aben  Hud  came  to  reconnoitre  it,  he  found  that  its 
aggregate  force  did  not  exceed  three  thousand  five  hundred 
men — a mere  handful  in  comparison  to  his  army,  and  those 
encumbered  with  cattle  and  booty.  He  anticipated,  therefore, 
an  easy  victory.  He  now  sallied  forth  from  the  city,  and  took 
his  position  in  the  olive-fields  between  the  Christians  and  the 
city ; while  the  African  horsemen  were  stationed  on  each  wing, 
with  instructions  to  hem  in  the  Christians  on  either  side,  for  he 
was  only  apprehensive  of  their  escaping.  It  is  even  said  that 
he  ordered  great  quantities  of  cord  to  be  brought  from  the 
city,  and  osier  bands  to  be  made  by  the  soldiery,  wherewith  to 
bind  the  multitude  of  prisoners  about  to  fall  into  their  hands. 
His  whole  force  he  divided  into  seven  battalions,  each  contain- 
ing from  fifteen  hundred  to  two  thousand  cavalry.  With 
these  he  prepared  to  give  battle. 

When  the  Christians  thus  saw  an  overwhelming  force  in 
front,  cavalry  hovering  on  either  flank,  and  the  deep  waters  of 
the  Guadalete  behind  them,  they  felt  the  peril  of  their  situa- 
tion. 

In  this  emergency  Alvar  Perez  de  Castro  showed  himself 
the  able  captain  that  he  had  been  represented.  Though  ap- 
parently deferring  to  the  prince  in  council,  be  virtually  took 


72 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


the  command,  riding  among  the  troops  lightly  armed,  with 
truncheon  in  hand,  encouraging  every  one  by  word  and  look 
and  fearless  demeanor.  To  give  the  most  formidable  appear- 
ance to  their  little  host,  he  ordered  that  as  many  as  possible  of 
the  foot-soldiers  should  mount  upon  the  mules  and  beasts  of 
burden,  and  form  a troop  to  be  kept  in  reserve.  Before  the 
battle  he  conferred  the  honor  of  knighthood  on  Garcia  Perez 
de  Vargas,  a cavalier  destined  to  gain  renown  for  hardy  deeds 
of  arms. 

When  the  troops  were  all  ready  for  the  field,  the  prince 
exhorted  them  as  good  Christians  to  confess  their  sins  and 
obtain  absolution.  There  was  a goodly  number  of  priests  and 
friars  with  the  army,  as  there  generally  was  with  all  the  plun- 
dering expeditions  of  this  holy  war,  but  there  were  not  enough 
to  confess  all  the  army ; those,  therefore,  who  could  not  have 
a priest  or  monk  for  the  purpose,  confessed  to  each  other. 

Among  the  cavaliers  were  two  noted  for  their  valor;  but 
who,  though  brothers-in-law,  lived  in  mortal  feud.  One  was 
Diego  Perez,  vassal  to  Alvar  Perez  and  brother  to  him  who 
had  just  been  armed  knight;  the  other  was  Pero  Miguel,  both 
natives  of  Toledo.  Diego  Perez  was  the  one  who  had  given 
cause  of  offence.  He  now  approached  his  adversary  and  asked 
his  pardon  for  that  day  only;  that,  in  a time  of  such  mortal 
peril,  there  might  not  be  enmity  and  malice  in  their  hearts. 
The  priests  added  their  exhortations  to  this  request,  but  Pero 
Miguel  sternly  refused  to  pardon.  When  this  was  told  to  the 
prince  and  Don  Alvar,  they  likewise  entreated  Don  Miguel  to 
pardon  his  brother-in-law.  “ I will,”  replied  he,  “if  he  will 
come  to  my  arms  and  embrace  me  as  a brother.”  But  Diego 
Perez  declined  the  fraternal  embrace,  for  he  saw  danger  in  the 
eye  of  Pero  Miguel,  and  he  knew  his  savage  strength  and 
savage  nature,  and  suspected  that  he  meant  to  strangle  him. 
So  Pero  Miguel  went  into  battle  without  pardoning  his  enemy 
who  had  implored  forgiveness. 

At  this  time,  say  the  old  chroniclers,  the  shouts  and  yells  of 
the  Moorish  army,  the  sounds  of  their  cymbals,  kettle-drums, 
and  other  instruments  of  warlike  music,  were  so  great  that 
heaven  and  earth  seemed  commingled  and  confounded.  In 
regarding  the  battle  about  to  overwhelm  him,  Alvar  Perez  saw 
that  the  only  chance  was  to  form  the  whole  army  into  one 
mass,  and  by  a headlong  assault  to  break  the  centre  of  the 
enemy.  In  this  emergency  he  sent  word  to  the  prince,  who 
was  in  the  rear  with  the  reserve  and  had  five  hundred  cap* 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


73 


tives  in  charge,  to  strike  off  the  heads  of  the  captives  and  join 
him  with  the  whole  reserve.  This  bloody  order  was  obeyed. 
The  prince  caifie  to  the  front,  all  formed  together  in  one  dense 
column,  and  then,  with  the  war-cry  “Santiago!  Santiago!  Cas- 
tile! Castile !”  charged  upon  the  centre  of  the  enemy.  The 
Moors’  line  was  broken  by  the  shock,  squadron  after  squadron 
was  thrown  into  confusion,  Moors  and  Christians  were  inter- 
mingled, until  the  field  became  one  scene  of  desperate,  chance- 
medley  fighting.  Every  Christian  cavalier  fought  as  if  the 
salvation  of  the  field  depended  upon  his  single  arm.  Garcia 
Perez  de  Vargas,  who  had  been  knighted  just  before  the  battle, 
proved  himself  worthy  of  the  honor.  He  had  three  horses 
killed  under  him,  and  engaged  in  a desperate  combat  with  the 
king  of  the  Azules,  whom  at  length  he  struck  dead  from  his 
horse.  The  king  had  crossed  from  Africa  on  a devout  expedi- 
tion in  the  cause  of  the  prophet  Mahomet.  “Verily,”  says 
Antonio  Agapida,  “ he  had  his  reward.” 

Diego  Perez  was  not  behind  his  brother  in  prowess ; and 
Heaven  favored  him  in  that  deadly  fight,  notwithstanding  that 
he  had  not  been  pardoned  by  his  enemy.  In  the  heat  of  the 
battle  he  had  broken  both  sword  and  lance ; whereupon,  tear- 
ing off  a great  knotted  limb  from  an  olive-tree,  he  laid  about 
him  with  such  vigor  and  manhood  that  he  who  got  one  blow 
in  the  head  from  that  war-club  never  needed  another.  Don 
Alvar  Perez,  who  witnessed  his  feats,  was  seized  with  delight. 
At  each  fresh  blow  that  cracked  a Moslem  skull  he  would  cry 
out,  “ Assi!  Assi!  Diego,  Machacha!  Machacha!”  (So!  So!  Diego, 
smash  them ! smash  them!)  and  from  that  day  forward  that 
strong-handed  cavalier  went  by  the  name  of  Diego  Machacha, 
or  Diego  the  Smasher,  and  it  remained  the  surname  of  several 
of  his  lineage. 

At  length  the  Moors  gave  way  and  fled  for  the  gates  of 
Xerez ; being  hotly  pursued  they  stumbled  over  the  bodies  of  the 
slain,  and  thus  many  were  taken  prisoners.  At  the  gates  the 
press  was  so  great  that  they  killed  each  other  in  striving  to 
enter;  and  the  Christian  sword  made  slaughter  under  the 
walls. 

The  Christians  gathered  spoils  cf  the  field,  after  this  victory, 
until  they  were  fatigued  with  collecting  them,  and  the  precious 
articles  found  in  the  Moorish  tents  were  beyond  calculation. 
Their  camp-fires  were  supplied  with  the  shafts  of  broken 
lances,  and  they  found  ample  use  for  the  cords  and  osier  bands 
which  the  Moors  had  provided  to  bind  their  expected  captives. 


74 


MOORISH  CITRONICLES. 


It  was  a theme  of  much  marvel  and  solemn  meditation  that 
of  all  the  distinguished  cavaliers  who  entered  into  this  battle, 
not  one  was  lost,  excepting  the  same  Pero  Miguel  who  refused 
to  pardon  his  adversary.  What  became  of  him  no  one  could 
tell.  The  last  that  was  seen  of  him  he  was  in  the  midst  of  the 
enemy,  cutting  down  and  overturning,  for  he  was  a valiant 
warrior  and  of  prodigious  strength.  When  the  battle  and 
pursuit  were  at  an  end,  and  the  troops  were  recalled  by  sound 
of  trumpet,  he  did  not  appear.  His  tent  remained  empty.  • 
The  field  of  battle  was  searched,  but  he  was  nowhere  to  be 
found.  Some  supposed  that,  in  his  fierce  eagerness  to  make 
havoc  among  the  Moors,  he  had  entered  the  gates  of  the  city 
and  there  been  slain ; but  his  fate  remained  a mere  matter  of 
conjecture,  and  the  whole  was  considered  an  awful  warning 
that  no  Christian  should  go  into  battle  without  pardoning 
those  who  asked  forgiveness. 

“ On  this  day,”  says  the  worthy  Agapida,  “ it  pleased  Heaven 
to  work  one  of  its  miracles  in  favor  of  the  Christian  host ; for 
the  blessed  Santiago  appeared  in  the  air  on  a white  horse,  with 
a white  banner  in  one  hand  and  a sword  in  the  other,  accom- 
panied by  a band  of  cavaliers  in  white.  This  miracle,”  he 
adds,  “was  beheld  by  many  men  of  verity  and  worth,”  pro- 
bably the  monks  and  priests  who  accompanied  the  army ; “ as 
well  as  by  members  of  the  Moors,  who  declared  that  the  great- 
est slaughter  was  effected  by  those  sainted  warriors.” 

It  may  be  as  well  to  add  that  Fray  Antonio  Agapida  is 
supported  in  this  marvellous  fact  by  Rodrigo,  Archbishop  of 
Toledo,  one  of  the  most  learned  and  pious  men  of  the  age,  who 
lived  at  the  time  and  records  it  in  his  chronicle.  It  is  a matter, 
therefore,  placed  beyond  the  doubts  of  the  profane. 

Note  by  the  Editor. — A memorandum  at  the  foot  of  this  page  of  the  author’s 
manuscript,  reminds  him  to  “notice  death  of  Queen  Beatrix  about  this  time,”  but 
the  text  continues  silent  on  the  subject.  According  to  Mariana,  she  died  in  the  city 
of  Toro  in  1235,  before  the  siege  of  Cordova.  Another  authority  gives  the  5th  of 
November,  1236,  as  the  date  of  the  decease,  which  would  be  some  months  after  the 
downfall  of  that  renowned  city.  Her  body  was  interred  in  the  nunnery  of  Las 
Huelgas  at  Burgos,  and  many  years  afterward  removed  to  Seville,  where  reposed 
f£e  remains  of  her  husband. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  TEE  SAINT. 


75 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A BOLD  ATTEMPT  UPON  CORDOVA,  THE  SEAT  OF  MOORISH  POWER. 

About  this  time  certain  Christian  cavaliers  of  the  frontiers 
received  information  from  Moorish  captives  that  the  noble 
city  of  Cordova  was  negligently  guarded,  so  that  the  suburbs 
might  easily  be  surprised.  They  immediately  concerted  a 
bold  attempt,  and  sent  to  Pedro  and  Alvar  Perez,  who  were 
at  Martos,  entreating  them  to  aid  them  with  their  vassals. 
Having  collected  a sufficient  force,  and  prepared  scaling-lad- 
ders, they  approached  the  city  on  a dark  night  in  January, 
amid  showers  of  rain  and  howling  blasts,  which  prevented 
their  footsteps  being  heard.  Arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  ram- 
parts, they  listened,  but  could  hear  no  sentinel.  The  guards 
had  shrunk  into  the  watch-towers  for  shelter  from  the  pelting 
storm,  and  the  garrison  was  in  profound  sleep,  for  it  was  the 
midwatch  of  the  night. 

Some,  disheartened  by  the  difficulties  of  the  place,  were  for 
abandoning  the  attempt,  but  Domingo  Munoz,  their  adalid,  or 
guide,  encouraged  them.  Silently  fastening  ladders  together, 
so  as  to  be  of  sufficient  length,  they  placed  them  against  one  of 
the  towers.  The  first  who  mounted  were  Alvar  Colodro  and 
Benito  de  Banos,  who  were  dressed  as  Moors  and  spoke  the 
Arabic  language.  The  tower  which  they  scaled  is  to  this  day 
called  the  tower  of  Alvar  Colodro.  Entering  it  suddenly  but 
sdently,  they  found  four  Moors  asleep,  whom  they  seized  and 
threw  over  the  battlements,  and  the  Christians  below  immedi- 
ately dispatched  them.  By  this  time  a number  more  of  Chris- 
tians had  mounted  the  ladder,  and  sallying  forth,  sword  in 
hand,  upon  the  wall,  they  gained  possession  of  several  towers 
and  of  the  gate  of  Martos.  Throwing  open  the  gate,  Pero 
Ruyz  Tabur  galloped  in  at  the  head  of  a squadron  of  horse, 
and  by  the  dawn  of  day  the  whole  suburbs  of  Cordova,  called 
the  Axarquia,  were  in  their  possession ; the  inhabitants  having 
hastily  gathered  such  of  their  most  valuable  effects  as  they 
could  carry  with  them,  and  taken  refuge  in  the  city. 

The  cavaliers  now  barricaded  every  street  of  the  suburbs 
excepting  the  principal  one,  which  was  broad  and  straight; 
the  Moors,  however,  made  frequent  sallies  upon  them,  or 


76 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


showered  down  darts  and  arrows  and  stones  from  the  walls 
and  towers  of  the  city.  The  cavaliers  soon  found  that  they 
had  got  into  warm  quarters,  which  it  would  cost  them  blood 
and  toil  to  maintain.  They  sent  olf  messengers,  therefore,  to 
Don  Alvar  Perez,  then  at  Martos,  and  to  King  Fernando,  at 
Benevente,  craving  instant  aid.  The  messenger  to  the  king 
travelled  day  and  night,  and  found  the  king  at  table ; when, 
kneeling  down,  he  presented  the  letter  with  which  he  was 
charged. 

No  sooner  had  the  king  read  the  letter  than  he  called  for 
horse  and  weapon.  All  Benevente  instantly  resounded  with 
the  clang  of  arms  and  tramp  of  steed ; couriers  galloped  off  in 
every  direction,  rousing  the  towns  and  villages  to  arms,  and 
ordering  every  one  to  join  the  king  on  the  frontier.  u Cor- 
dova! Cordova!”  was  the  war-cry — that  proud  city  of  the 
infidels!  that  seat  of  Moorish  power!  The  king  waited  not 
to  assemble  a great  force,  but,  within  an  hour  after  receiving 
the  letter,  was  on  the  road  with  a hundred  good  cavaliers. 

It  was  the  depth  of  winter;  the  rivers  were  swollen  with 
rain.  The  royal  party  were  often  obliged  to  halt  on  the  bank 
of  some  raging  stream  until  its  waters  should  subside.  The 
king  was  all  anxiety  and  impatience.  Cordova!  Cordova! 
was  the  prize  to  be  won,  and  the  cavaliers  might  be  driven  out 
of  the  suburbs  before  he  could  arrive  to  their  assistance. 

Arrived  at  Cordova,  he  proceeded  to  the  bridge  of  Alcolea, 
where  he  pitched  his  tents  and  displayed  the  royal  standard. 

Before  the  arrival  of  the  king,  Alvar  Perez  had  hastened 
from  the  castle  of  Martos  with  a body  of  troops,  and  thrown 
himself  into  the  suburbs.  Many  warriors,  both  horse  and  foot, 
had  likewise  hastened  from  the  frontiers  and  from  the  various 
towns  to  which  the  king  had  sent  his  mandates.  Some  came 
to  serve  the  king,  others  out  of  devotion  to  the  holy  faith, 
some  to  gain  renown,  and  not  a few  to  aid  in  plundering  the 
rich  city  of  Cordova.  There  were  many  monks,  also,  who  had 
come  for  the  glory  of  God  and  the  benefit  of  their  convents. 

When  the  Christians  in  the  suburbs  saw  the  royal  standard 
floating  above  the  camp  of  the  king,  they  shouted  for  joy,  and 
in  the  exultation  of  the  moment  forgot  all  nast  dangers  and 
hardships. 


GlLliOiSiCLE  Ob'  FELiJSAXDO  THE  tiAlbiT. 


11 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A SPY  IN  THE  CHRISTIAN  CAMP.— DEATH  OF  ABEN  HUD. — A VITAL 
"BLOW  TO  MOSLEM  POWER. — SURRENDER  OF  CORDOVA  TO  KING 
FERNANDO. 

Aben  Hud,  the  Moorish  chief,  who  had  been  defeated  by 
Alvar  Perez  and  Prince  Alonzo  before  Xerez,  was  at  this  time 
in  Ecija  with  a large  force,  and  disposed  to  hasten  to  the  aid  of 
Cordova,  but  his  recent  defeat  had  made  him  cautious.  He 
had  in  his  camp  a Christian  cavalier,  Don  Lorenzo  Xuares  by 
name,  who  had  been  banished  from  Castile  by  King  Fernando. 
This  cavalier  offered  to  go  as  a spy  into  the  Christian  camp, 
accompanied  by  three  Christian  horsemen,  and  to  bring  ac- 
counts of  its  situation  and  strength.  His  offer  was  gladly 
accepted,  and  Aben  Hud  promised  to  do  nothing  with  his  forces 
until  his  return. 

Don  Lorenzo  set  out  privately  with  his  companions,  and 
when  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  bridge  he  alighted  and  took 
one  of  the  three  with  him,  leaving  the  other  two  to  guard  the 
horses.  He  entered  the  camp  without  impediment,  and  saw 
that  it  was  small  and  of  but  little  force ; for,  though  recruits 
had  repaired  from  all  quarters,  they  had  as  yet  arrived  in  but 
scanty  numbers. 

As  Don  Lorenzo  approached  the  camp  he  saw  a montero  who 
stood  sentinel.  “Friend,”  said  he,  “ do  me  the  kindness  to  call 
to  me  some  person  who  is  about  the  king,  as  I have  something 
to  tell  him  of  great  importance.”  The  sentinel  went  in  and 
brought  out  Don  Otiella.  Don  Lorenzo  took  him  aside  and 
said,  “ Do  you  not  know  me  ? I am  Don  Lorenzo.  I pray  you 
tell  the  king  that  I entreat  permission  to  enter  and  communi- 
cate matters  touching  his  safety.” 

Don  Otiella  went  in  and  awoke  the  king,  who  was  sleeping, 
and  obtained  permission  for  Don  Lorenzo  to  enter.  When  the 
king  beheld  him  lie  was  wroth  at  his  presuming  to  return  from 
exile;  but  Don  Lorenzo  replied, — “Senor,  your  majesty  ban- 
ished me  to  the  land  of  the  Moors  to  do  me  harm,  but  I believe 
it  was  intended  by  Heaven  for  the  welfare  both  of  your 
majesty  and  myself.”  Then  he  apprised  the  king  of  the  intern 


78 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


tion  of  Aben  Hud  to  come  with  a great  force  against  him,  and 
of  the  doubts  and  fears  ho  entertained  lest  the  army  of  the 
king  should  be  too  powerful.  Don  Lorenzo,  therefore,  advised 
the  king  to  draw  off  as  many  troops  as  could  be  spared  from 
the  suburbs  of  Cordova,  and  to  give  his  camp  as  formidable  an 
aspect  as  possible ; and  that  he  would  return  and  give  Aben 
Hud  such  an  account  of  the  power  of  the  royal  camjj  as  would 
deter  him  from  the  attack.  “If,”  continued  Don  Lorenzo,  “ I 
fail  in  diverting  him  from  his  enterprise,  I will  come  off  with 
all  my  vassals  and  offer  myself,  and  all  I can  command,  for  the 
service  of  your  majesty,  and  hope  to  be  accepted  for  my  good 
intentions.  As  to  what  takes  x>lace  in  the  Moorish  camp,  from 
hence,  in  three  days,  I will  send  your  majesty  letters  by  this 
my  esquire.” 

The  king  thanked  Don  Lorenzo  for  his  good  intentions,  and 
pardoned  him,  and  took  him  as  his  vassal ; and  Don  Lorenzo 
said:  “I  beseech  your  majesty  to  order  that  for  three  or  four 
nights  there  be  made  great  fires  in  various  parts  of  the  camp, 
so  that  in  case  Aben  Hud  should  send  scouts  by  night,  there 
may  be  the  appearance  of  a great  host.  ” The  king  promised  it 
should  be  done,  and  Don  Lorenzo  took  his  leave;  rejoining  his 
companions  at  the  bridge,  they  mounted  their  horses  and  trav- 
elled all  night  and  returned  to  Eeija. 

When  Don  Lorenzo  appeared  in  presence  of  Aben  Hud  he 
had  the  air  of  one  fatigued  and  careworn.  To  the  inquiries  of 
the  Moor  he  returned  answers  full  of  alarm,  magnifying  the 
power  and  condition  of  the  royal  forces.  4 ‘ Senor,  ” added  he, 

‘ 1 if  you  would  be  assured  of  the  truth  of  what  I say,  send  out 
your  scouts,  and  they  will  behold  the  Christian  tents  whitening 
all  the  banks  of  the  Guadalquivir,  and  covering  the  country  as 
the  snow  covers  the  mountains  of  Granada ; or  at  night  they 
will  see  fires  on  hill  and  dale  illumining  all  the  land.  ” 

This  intelligence  redoubled  the  doubts  and  apprehensions  of 
Aben  Hud.  On  the  following  day  two  Moorish  horsemen  ar- 
rived in  all  haste  from  Zaen,  King  of  Valencia,  informing  him 
that  King  James  of  Aragon  was  coming  against  that  place  with 
a powerful  army,  and  offering  him  the  supremacy  of  the  place 
if  he  would  hasten  with  all  speed  to  its  relief. 

Aben  Hud,  thus  perplexed  between  twm  objects,  asked  advice 
of  his  counsellors,  among  whom  was  the  perfidious  Don  Lo- 
renzo. They  observed  that  the  Christians,  though  they  had 
possession  of  the  suburbs  of  Cordova,  could  not  for  a long  time 
master  the  place.  He  would  have  time,  therefore,  to  relieve 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


79 


Valencia,  and  then  turn  his  arms  and  those  of  King  Zaen 
against  the  host  of  King  Fernando. 

Aben  Hud  listened  to  their  advice,  and  marched  immediately 
for  Almeria,  to  take  thence  his  ships  to  guard  the  port  of  Valen- 
cia. While  at  Almeria  a Moor  named  Aben  Arramin,  and  who 
was  his  especial  favorite,  invited  him  to  a banquet.  The  un- 
suspecting Aben  Hud  threw  off  his  cares  for  the  time  and 
giving  loose  to  convivialty  in  the  house  of  his  favorite,  drank 
freely  of  the  wine-cup  that  was  insidiously  pressed  upon  him 
until  he  became  intoxicated.  He  was  then  suffocated  by  the 
traitor  in  a trough  of  water,  and  it  was  given  out  that  he  had 
died  of  apoplexy. 

At  the  death  of  Aben  Hud,  his  host  fell  asunder,  and  every 
one  hied  him  to  his  home,  whereupon  Hon  Lorenzo  and  the 
Christians  who  were  with  him  hastened  to  King  Fernando,  by 
whom  they  were  graciously  received  and  admitted  into  his 
royal  service. 

The  death  of  Aben  Hud  was  a vital  blow  to  Moslem  power, 
and  spread  confusion  throughout  Andalusia.  When  the  people 
of  Cordova  heard  of  it,  and  of  the  dismemberment  of  his 
army,  all  courage  withered  from  their  hearts.  Hay  after  day 
the  army  of  King  Fernando  was  increasing,  the  roads  were 
covered  with  foot-soldiers  hastening  to  his  standard;  every 
hidalgo  who  could  bestride  a horse  spurred  to  the  banks  of  the 
Guadalquivir  to  he  present  at  the  downfall  of  Cordova.  The 
noblest  cavaliers  of  Castile  were  continually  seen  marching 
into  the  camp  with  banners  flying  and  long  trains  of  retainers. 

The  inhabitants  held  out  as  long  as  there  was  help  or  hope ; 
but  they  were  exhausted  by  frequent  combats  and  long  and  in- 
creasing famine,  and  now  the  death  of  Aben  Hud  cut  off  all 
chance  of  succor.  With  sad  and  broken  spirits,  therefore,  they 
surrendered  their  noble  city  to  King  Fernando,  after  a siege  of 
six  months  and  six  days.  The  surrender  took  place  on  Sunday, 
the  twenty-ninth  day  of  July,  the  feast  of  the  glorious  Apostles 
St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul,  in  the  year  of  the  Incarnation  one 
thousand  two  hundred  and  thirty-six. 

The  inhabitants  were  permitted  to  march  forth  in  personal 
safety,  but  to  take  nothing  with  them.  “ Thus.”  exclaims  the 
pious  Agapida,  “was  the  city  of  Cordova,  the  queen  of  the 
cities  of  Andalusia,  which  so  long  had  been  the  seat  of  the 
power  and  grandeur  of  the  Moors,  cleansed  from  all  the  im- 
purities of  Mahomet  and  restored  to  the  dominion  of  the  true 
faith.” 


80 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


King  Fernando  immediately  ordered  the  cross  to  be  elevated 
on  the  tower  of  the  principal  mosque,  and  beside  it  the  royal 
standard;  while  the  bishops,  the  clergy,  and  all  the  people 
chanted  Te  Deum  Laudamus , as  a song  of  triumph  for  this 
great  victory  of  the  faith.* 

The  king,  having  now  gained  full  possession  of  the  city,  be- 
gan to  repair,  embellish,  and  improve  it.  The  grand  mosque, 
the  greatest  and  most  magnificent  in  Spain,  was  now  converted 
into  a holy  Catholic  church.  The  bishops  and  other  clergy 
walked  round  it  in  solemn  procession,  sprinkling  holy  water 
in  every  nook  and  corner,  and  performing  all  other  rites  and 
ceremonies  necessary  to  purify  and  sanctify  it.  They  erected 
an  altar  in  it,  also,  in  honor  of  the  Virgin,  and  chanted  masses 
with  great  fervor  and  unction.  In  this  way  they  consecrated 
it  to  the  true  faith,  and  made  it  the  cathedral  of  the  city. 

In  this  mosque  were  found  the  bells  of  the  church  of  San 
Iago  in  Gallicia,  which  the  Alhagib  Almanzor,  in  the  year  of 
our  Redemption  nine  hundred  and  seventy-five,  had  brought 
off  in  triumph  and  placed  here,  turned  with  their  mouths  up- 
ward to  serve  as  lamps,  and  remain  shining  mementoes  of  his 
victory.  King  Fernando  ordered  that  these  bells  should  be  re- 
stored to  the  church  of  San  Iago ; and  as  Christians  had  been 
obliged  to  bring  those  bells  hither  on  their  shoulders,  so  in- 
fidels were  compelled  in  like  manner  to  carry  them  back. 
Great  was  the  popular  triumph  when  these  bells  had  their 
tongues  restored  to  them,  and  were  once  more  enabled  to  fill 
the  air  with  their  holy  clangor. 

Having  ordered  all  things  for  the  security  and  welfare  of 
the  city,  the  king  placed  it  under  the  government  of  Don 
Tello  Alonzo  de  Meneses ; he  appointed  Don  Alvar  Perez  de 
Castro,  also,  general  of  the  frontier,  having  his  stronghold  in 
the  castle  of  the  rock  of  Martos.  The  king  then  returned, 
covered  with  glory,  to  Toledo. 

The  fame  of  the  recovery  of  the  renowned  city  of  Cordova, 
which  for  five  hundred  and  twenty-two  years  had  been  in  the 
power  of  the  infidels,  soon  spread  throughout  the  kingdom, 
and  people  came  crowding  from  every  part  to  inhabit  it.  The 
gates  which  lately  had  been  thronged  with  steel-clad  warriors 
were  now  besieged  by  peaceful  wayfarers  of  all  kinds,  con- 
ducting trains  of  mules  laden  with  their  effect  and  all  their 


* Cron.  Gen.  de  Espana.  pt.  4.  Bleda,  lib.  4,  c,  10. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT  81 

household  wealth ; and  so  great  was  the  throng  that  in  a little 
while  there  were  not  houses  sufficient  to  receive  them. 

King  Fernando,  having  restored  the  hells  to  San  Iago,  had 
others  suspended  in  the  tower  of  the  mosque,  whence  the 
muezzin  had  been  accustomed  to  call  the  Moslems  to  their 
worship.  ‘ 4 When  the  pilgrims,  ” says  Fray  Antonio  Agapida, 
‘ ‘ who  repaired  to  Cordova,  heard  the  holy  sound  of  these 
bells  chiming  from  the  tower  of  the  cathedral,  their  hearts 
leaped  for  joy,  and  they  invoked  blessings  on  the  head  of  the 
pious  King  Fernando.” 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MARRIAGE  OF  KING  FERNANDO  TO  THE  PRINCESS  JUANITA— 
FAMINE  AT  CORDOVA. — DON  ALVAR  PEREZ. 

When  Queen  Berenguela  beheld  King  Fernando  returning 
in  triumph  from  the  conquest  of  Cordova,  her  heart  was  lifted 
up  with  transport,  for  there  is  nothing  that  more  rejoices  the 
heart  of  a mother  than  the  true  glory  of  her  son.  The  queen, 
however,  as  has  been  abundantly  shown,  was  a woman  of 
great  sagacity  and  forecast.  She  considered  that  upwards  of 
two  years  had  elapsed  since  the  death  of  the  Queen  Beatrix, 
and  that  her  son  was  living  in  widowhood.  It  is  true  he  was 
of  quiet  temperament,  and  seemed  sufficiently  occupied  by  the 
cares  of  government  and  the  wars  for  the  faith ; so  that  ap- 
parently he  had  no  thought  of  further  matrimony;  but  the 
shrewd  mother  considered  likewise  that  he  was  in  the  prime 
and  vigor  of  his  days,  renowned  in  arms,  noble  and  command- 
ing in  person,  and  gracious  and  captivating  in  manners,  and 
surrounded  by  the  temptations  of  a court.  True,  he  was  a 
saint  in  spirit,  but  after  all  in  flesh  he  was  a man,  and  might 
be  led  away  into  those  weaknesses  very  incident  to,  but  highly 
unbecoming  of,  the  exalted  state  of  princes.  The  good  mother 
was  anxious,  therefore,  that  he  should  enter  again  into  the 
secure  and  holy  state  of  wedlock. 

King  Fernando,  a mirror  of  obedience  to  his  mother,  readily 
concurred  with  her  views  in  the  present  instance,  and  left  it  to 
her  judgment  and  discretion  to  make  a choice  for  him.  The 
choice  fell  upon  the  Princess  Juana,  daughter  of  the  Count  of 


82 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


Pothier,  and  a descendant  of  Louis  tlie  Seventh  of  France. 
The  marriage  was  negotiated  by  Queen  Berenguela  with  the 
Count  of  Pothier;  and  the  conditions  being  satisfactorily 
arranged,  the  princess  was  conducted  in  due  state  to  Burgos, 
where  the  nuptials  were  celebrated  with  great  pomp  and  cere- 
mony. 

The  king,  as  well  as  his  subjects,  was  highly  satisfied  with 
the  choice  of  the  sage  Berenguela,  for  the  bride  was  young, 
beautiful,  and  of  stately  form,  and  conducted  herself  with 
admirable  suavity  and  grace. 

After  the  rejoicings  were  over,  King  Fernando  departed 
with  his  bride,  and  visited  the  principal  cities  and  towns  of 
Castile  and  Leon;  receiving  the  homage  of  his  subjects,  and 
administering  justice  according  to  the  primitive  forms  of 
those  days,  when  sovereigns  attended  personally  to  the  peti- 
tions and  complaints  of  their  subjects,  and  went  about  hearing 
causes  and  redressing  grievances. 

In  the  course  of  his  progress,  hearing  while  at  Toledo  of  a 
severe  famine  which  prevailed  at  Cordova,  he  sent  a large 
supply  of  money  to  that  city,  and  at  the  same  time  issued 
orders  to  various  parts  to  transport  thither  as  much  grain  as 
possible.  The  calamity,  however,  went  on  increasing.  The 
conquest  of  Cordova  had  drawn  thither  great  multitudes,  ex- 
pecting to  thrive  on  the  well-known  fertility  and  abundance  of 
the  country.  But  the  Moors,  in  the  agitation  of  the  time,  had 
almost  ceased  to  cultivate  their  fields;  the  troops  helped  to 
consume  the  supplies  on  hand ; there  wTere  few  hands  to  labor 
and  an  infinity  of  mouths  to  eat,  and  the  cry  of  famine  went 
on  daily  growing  more  intense. 

Upon  this,  Don  Alvar  Perez,  who  had  command  of  the  fron- 
tier, set  off  to  represent  the  case  in  person  to  the  king ; for  one 
living  word  from  the  mouth  is  more  effective  than  a thousand 
dead  words  from  the  pen.  He  found  the  king  at  Valladolid, 
deeply  immersed  in  the  religious  exercises  of  Holy  Week,  and 
much  did  it  grieve  this  saintly  monarch,  say  his  chroniclers,  to 
be  obliged  even  for  a moment  to  quit  the  holy  quiet  of  the 
church  for  the  worldly  bustle  of  the  palace,  to  lay  by  the  saint 
and  enact  the  sovereign.  Having  heard  the  representations  of 
Don  Alvar  Perez,  he  forthwith  gave  him  ample  funds  where- 
with to  maintain  his  castles,  his  soldiers,  and  even  the  idlers 
who  thronged  about  the  frontier,  and  wrho  would  be  useful 
subjects  when  the  times  should  become  settled.  Satisfied,  also, 
of  the  zeal  and  loyalty  of  Alvar  Perez,  which  had  been  so 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


83 


strikingly  displayed  in  the  present  instance,  he  appointed  him 
adelantado  of  the  whole  frontier  of  Andalusia — an  office  equi- 
valent to  that  at  present  called  viceroy.  Don  Alvar  hastened 
back  to  execute  his  mission  and  enter  upon  his  new  office.  He 
took  his  station  at  Martos,  in  its  rock-built  castle,  which  was 
the  key  of  all  that  frontier,  whence  he  could  carry  relief  to  any 
point  of  his  command,  and  could  make  occasional  incursions 
' into  the  territories.  The  following  chapter  will  show  the  cares 
and  anxieties  which  awaited  him  in  his  new  command. 


CHAPTER  X. 

ABEN  ALHAMAR,  FOUNDER  OF  THE  ALHAMBRA. — FORTIFIES  GRA- 
NADA AND  MAKES  IT  HIS  CAPITAL. — ATTEMPTS  TO  SURPRISE 
THE  CASTLE  OF  MARTOS. — PERIL  OF  THE  FORTRESS. — A WOMAN’S 
STRATAGEM  TO  SAVE  IT.— DIEGO  PEREZ,  THE  SMASHER. — DEATH 
OF  COUNT  ALVAR  PEREZ  DE  CASTRO. 

On  the  death  of  Aben  Hud,  the  Moorish  power  in  Spain  was 
br<  ken  up  into  factions,  as  has  already  been  mentioned ; but 
these  factions  were  soon  united  under  one  head,  who  threat- 
ened to  be  a formidable  adversary  to  the  Christians.  This  was 
Mohammed  ben  Alhamar,  or  Aben  ALhamar,  as  he  is  common- 
ly called  in  history.  He  was  a native  of  Arjona,  of  noble  de- 
scent, being  of  the  Beni  Nasar,  or  race  of  Nasar,  and  had  been 
educated  in  a manner  befitting  his  rank.  Arrived  at  manly 
years,  he  had  been  appointed  alcayde  of  Arjona  and  Jaen,  and 
had  distinguished  himself  by  the  justice  and  benignity  of  his 
rule.  He  was  intrepid,  also,  and  ambitious,  and  during  the 
late  dissensions  among  the  Moslems  had  extended  his  territo- 
ries, making  himself  master  of  many  strong  places. 

On  the  death  of  Aben  Hud,  he  made  a military  circuit 
through  the  Moorish  territories,  and  was  everywhere  hailed 
with  acclamations  as  the  only  one  who  could  save  the  Moslem 
power  in  Spain  from  annihilation.  At  length  he  entered  Gra- 
nada amidst  the  enthusiastic  shouts  of  the  populace.  Here  he 
was  proclaimed  king,  and  found  himself  at  the  head  of  the 
Moslems  of  Spain,  being  the  first  of  his  illustrious  line  that 
ever  sat  upon  a throne.  It  needs  nothing  more  to  give  lasting 
renown  to  Aben  Alhamar  than  to  say  he  was  the  founder  of  the 


84 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


Alhambra,  that  magnificent  monument  which  to  this  day 
bears  testimony  to  Moorish  taste  and  splendor.  As  yet,  how- 
ever, Aben  Alhamar  had  not  time  to  indulge  in  the  arts  of 
peace.  He  saw  the  storm  of  war  that  threatened  his  newly 
founded  kingdom,  and  prepared  to  buffet  with  it.  The  territo- 
ries of  Granada  extended  along  the  coast  from  Algeziras  almost 
to  Murcia,  and  inland  as  far  as  Jaen  and  Huescar.  All  the 
frontiers  he  hastened  to  put  in  a state  of  defence,  while  he 
strongly  fortified  the  city  of  Granada,  which  he  made  his 
capital. 

By  the  Mahometan  law  every  citizen  is  a soldier,  and  to 
take  arms  in  defence  of  the  country  and  the  faith  is  a religious 
and  imperative  duty.  Aben  Alhamar,  however,  knew  the  un- 
steadiness of  hastily  levied  militia,  and  organized  a standing 
force  to  garrison  his  forts  and  cities,  the  expense  of  which  he 
defrayed  from  his  own  revenues.  The  Moslem  warriors  from 
all  parts  now  rallied  under  his  standard,  and  fifty  thousand 
Moors,  abandoning  Valencia  on  the  conquest  of  that  country  by 
the  king  of  Aragon,  hastened  to  put  themselves  under  the  do- 
minion of  Aben  Alhamar. 

Don  Alvar  Perez,  on  returning  to  his  post,  had  intelligence 
of  all  these  circumstances,  and  perceived  that  he  had  not  suffi- 
cient force  to  make  head  against  such  a formidable  neighbor, 
and  that  in  fact  the  whole  frontier,  so  recently  wrested  from 
the  Moors,  was  in  danger  of  being  reconquered.  With  his  old 
maxim,  therefore,  “ There  is  more  life  in  one  word  from  the 
mouth  than  in  a thousand  words  from  the  pen,”  he  deter- 
mined to  have  another  interview  with  King  Fernando,  and 
acquaint  him  with  the  imminent  dangers  impending  over  the 
frontier. 

He  accordingly  took  his  departure  with  great  secrecy,  leav- 
ing his  countess  and  her  women  and  donzellas  in  his  castle  of 
the  rock  of  Martos,  guarded  by  his  nephew  Don  Tello  and  forty 
chosen  men. 

The  departure  of  Don  Alvar  Perez  was  not  so  secret,  how- 
ever, but  that  Aben  Alhamar  had  notice  of  it  by  his  spies,  and 
he  resolved  to  make  an  attempt  to  surprise  the  castle  of  Mar- 
tos, which,  as  has  been  said,  was  the  key  to  all  this  frontier. 

Don  Tello,  who  had  been  left  in  command  of  the  fortress, 
was  a young  galliard,  full  of  the  fire  of  youth,  and  he  had  sev- 
eral hardy  and  adventurous  cavaliers  with  him,  among  whom 
was  Diego  Perez  de  Vargas,  sumamed  Machacha,  or  the 
Smasher,  for  his  exploits  at  the  battle  of  Xerez  in  smashing 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


85 


the  heads  of  the  Moors  with  the  limb  of  an  olive  tree.  These 
hot-blooded  cavaliers,  looking  out  like  hawks  from  their 
mountain  hold,  were  seized  with  an  irresistible  inclination  to 
make  a foray  into  the  lands  of  their  Moorish  neighbors.  On  a 
bright  morning  they  accordingly  set  forth,  promising  the  don- 
zellas  of  the  castle  to  bring  them  jewels  and  rich  silks,  the 
spoils  of  Moorish  women. 

The  cavaliers  had  not  been  long  gone  when  the  castle  was 
alarmed  by  the  sound  of  trumpets,  and  the  watchman  from 
the  tower  gave  notice  of  a cloud  of  dust,  with  Moorish  banners , 
and  armor  gleaming  through  it.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  Moorish 
king,  Aben  Alhamar,  who  pitched  his  tents  before  the  castle. 

Great  was  the  consternation  that  reigned  within  the  walls, 
for  all  the  men  were  absent,  excepting  one  or  two  necessary 
for  the  service  of  the  castle.  The  dames  and  donzellas  gave 
themselves  up  to  despair,  expecting  to  be  carried  away  cap- 
tive, perhaps  to  supply  some  Moorish  harem.  The  countess, 
however,  was  of  an  intrepid  spirit  and  ready  invention.  Sum- 
moning her  duenas  and  damsels,  she  made  them  arrange  their 
hair,  and  dress  themselves  like  men,  take  weapons  in  hand, 
and  show  themselves  between  the  battlements.  The  Moorish 
king  was  deceived,  and  supposed  the  fort  well  garrisoned.  He 
was  deterred,  therefore,  from  attempting  to  take  it  by  storm. 
In  the  mean  time  she  dispatched  a messenger  by  the  postern- 
gate,  with  orders  to  speed  swiftly  in  quest  of  Don  Tello,  and 
tell  him  the  peril  of  the  fortress. 

At  hearing  these  tidings,  Don  Tello  and  his  companions 
turned  their  reins  and  spurred  back  for  the  castle,  but  on 
drawing  nigh,  they  saw  from  a hill  that  it  was  invested  by 
a numerous  host  who  were  battering  the  walls.  It  was  an 
appalling  sight— to  cut  their  way  through  such  a force  seemed 
hopeless— yet  their  hearts  were  wrung  with  anguish  when  they 
thought  of  the  countess  and  her  helpless  donzellas.  Upon 
this,  Diego  Perez  de  Vargas,  surnamed  Machacha,  stepped 
forward  and  proposed  to  form  a forlorn  hope,  and  attempt 
to  force  a passage  to  the  castle.  “ If  any  of  us  succeed,”  said 
he,  “we  may  save  the  countess  and  the  rock;  if  we  fall,  we 
shall  save  our  souls  and  act  the  parts  of  good  cavaliers.  This 
rock  is  the  key  of  all  the  frontier,  on  which  the  king  depends 
to  get  possession  of  the  country.  Shame  would  it  be  if  Moors 
should  capture  it;  above  all,  if  they  should  lead  away  our 
honored  countess  and  her  ladies  captive  before  our  eyes, 
while  our  lances  remain  unstained  by  blood  and  we  unscarred 


86 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


with  a wound.  For  my  part,  I would  rather  die  than  see  it. 
Life  is  but  short;  we  should  do  in  it  our  best.  So,  in  a word, 
cavaliers,  if  you  refuse  to  join  me  I will  take  my  leave  of  you 
and  do  what  I can  with  my  single  arm.” 

“ Diego  Perez,”  cried  Don  Tello,  u you  have  spoken  my  very 
wishes;  I will  stand  by  you  until  the  death,  and  let  those  who 
are  good  cavaliers  and  hidalgos  follow  our  example.” 

The  other  cavaliers  caught  fire  at  these  words ; forming  a 
solid  squadron,  they  put  spurs  to  their  horses,  and  rushed 
down  upon  the  Moors.  The  first  who  broke  into  the  ranks  of 
the  enemy  was  Diego  Perez,  the  Smasher,  and  he  opened  a 
way  for  the  others.  Their  only  object  was  to  cut  their  way 
to  the  fortress;  so  they  fought  and  pressed  forward.  The 
most  of  them  got  to  the  rock ; some  were  cut  off  by  the  Moors, 
and  died  like  valiant  knights,  fighting  to  the  last  gasp. 

When  the  Moorish  king  saw  the  daring  of  these  cavaliers, 
and  that  they  had  succeeded  in  reinforcing  the  garrison,  he 
despaired  of  gaining  the  castle  without  much  time,  trouble, 
and  loss  of  blood.  He  persuaded  himself,  therefore,  that  it 
was  not  worth  the  price,  and,  striking  his  tents,  abandoned  the 
siege.  Thus  the  rock  of  Martos  was  saved  by  the  sagacity  of 
the  countess  and  the  prowess  of  Diego  Perez  de  Vargas,  sur- 
named  the  Smasher. 

In  the  mean  time,  Don  Alvar  Perez  de  Castro  arrived  in  pres- 
ence of  the  king  at  Hutiel.  King  Fernando  received  him  with 
benignity,  but  seemed  to  think  his  zeal  beyond  his  prudence ; 
leaving  so  important  a frontier  so  weakly  guarded,  sinking  the 
viceroy  in  the  courier,  and  coming  so  far  to  give  by  word  of 
mouth  what  might  easily  have  been  communicated  by  letter. 
He  felt  the  value,  however,  of  his  loyalty  and  devotion,  but, 
furnishing  him  with  ample  funds,  requested  him  to  lose  no 
time  in  getting  back  to  his  post.  The  count  set  out  on  his 
return,  but  it  is  probable  the  ardor  and  excitement  of  his  spirit 
proved  fatal  to  him,  for  he  was  seized  with  a violent  fever 
when  on  the  journey,  and  died  in  the  town  of  Orgaz. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


8? 


CHAPTER  XI. 

ABEN  HUDIEL,  THE  MOORISH  KING  OF  MURCIA,  BECOMES  THE 
VASSAL  OF  KING  FERNANDO. — ABEN  ALHAMAR  SEEKS  TO  DRIVE 
THE  CHRISTIANS  OUT  OF  ANDALUSIA. — FERNANDO  TAKES  THE 
FIELD  AGAINST  HIM.  — RAVAGES  OF  THE  KING. — HIS  LAST 
MEETING  WITH  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

The  death  of  Count  Alvar  Perez  de  Castro  caused  deep  afflic- 
tion to  King  Fernando,  for  he  considered  him  the  shield  of  the 
frontier.  While  he  was  at  Cordova,  or  at  his  rock  of  Martos, 
the  king  felt  as  assured  of  the  safety  of  the  border  as  though 
he  had  been  there  himself.  As  soon  as  he  could  be  spared  from 
Castile  and  Leon,  he  hastened  to  Cordova,  to  supply  the  loss 
the  frontier  had  sustained  in  the  person  of  his  vigilant  lieuten- 
ant. One  of  his  first  measures  was  to  effect  a truce  of  one  year 
with  the  king  of  Granada — a measure  which  each  adopted  with 
great  regret,  compelled  by  his  several  policy : King  Fernando 
to  organize  and  secure  his  recent  conquests ; Aben  Alhamar  to 
regulate  and  fortify  his  newly  founded  kingdom.  Each  felt 
that  he  had  a powerful  enemy  to  encounter  and  a desperate 
struggle  before  him. 

King  Fernando  remained  at  Cordova  until  the  spring  of  the 
following  year  (1241),  regulating  the  affairs  of  that  noble  city, 
assigning  houses  and  estates  to  such  of  his  cavaliers  as  had  dis- 
tinguished themselves  in  the  conquest,  and,  as  usual,  making 
rich  donations  of  towns  and  great  tracts  of  land  to  the  Church 
and  to  different  religious  orders.  Leaving  his  brother  Alfonso 
with  a sufficient  force  to  keep  an  eye  upon  the  king  of  Gra- 
nada and  hold  him  in  check,  King  Fernando  departed  for 
Castile,  making  a circuit  by  Jaen  and  Baeza  and  Andujar,  and 
arriving  in  Toledo  on  the  fourth  of  April.  Here  he  received 
important  propositions  from  Aben  Hudiel,  the  Moorish  king 
of  Murcia.  The  death  of  Aben  Hud  had  left  that  kingdom  a 
scene  of  confusion.  The  alcaydes  of  the  different  cities  and 
fortresses  were  at  strife  with  each  other,  and  many  refused 
allegiance  to  Aben  Hudiel.  The  latter,  too,  was  in  hostility 
with  Aben  Alhamar,  the  king  of  Granada,  and  he  feared  he 
would  take  advantage  of  his  truce  with  King  Fernando,  and 
the  distracted  state  of  the  kingdom  of  Murcia,  to  make  an  in- 


88 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


road.  Thus  desperately  situated,  Aben  Hudiel  had  sent  mis- 
sives to  King  Fernando,  entreating  his  protection,  and  offering 
to  become  his  vassal. 

The  king  of  Castile  gladly  closed  with  this  offer.  He  forth- 
with sent  his  son  and  heir,  the  Prince  Alfonso,  to  receive  the 
submission  of  the  king  of  Murcia.  As  the  prince  was  young 
and  inexperienced  in  these  affairs  of  state,  he  sent  with  him 
Don  Pelayo  de  Correa,  the  Grand  Master  of  Santiago,  a cava- 
lier of  consummate  wisdom  and  address,  and  also  Rodrigo 
Gonzalez  Giron.  The  prince  was  received  in  Murcia  with 
regal  honors;  the  terms  were  soon  adjusted  by  which  the 
Moorish  king  acknowledged  vassalage  to  King  Fernando,  and 
ceded  to  him  one-half  of  his  revenues,  in  return  for  which  the 
king  graciously  took  him  under  his  protection.  The  alcaydes  of 
Alicant,  Elche,  Oriola,  and  several  other  places,  agreed  to  this 
covenant  of  vassalage,  but  it  was  indignantly  spurned  by  the 
Wali  of  Lorca;  he  had  been  put  in  office  by  Aben  Ilud;  and, 
now  that  potentate  was  no  more,  he  aspired  to  exercise  an 
independent  sway,  and  had  placed  alcaydes  of  his  own  party 
in  Mula  and  Carthagena. 

As  the  Prince  Alfonso  had  come  to  solemnize  the  act  of 
homage  and  vassalage  proposed  by  the  Moorish  king,  and  not 
to  extort  submission  from  his  subjects  by  force  of  arms,  he 
contented  himself  with  making  a progress  through  the  king- 
dom and  receiving  the  homage  of  the  acquiescent  towns  and 
cities,  after  which  he  rejoined  his  father  in  Castile. 

It  is  conceived  by  the  worthy  Fray  Antonio  Agapida,  as  well 
as  by  other  monkish  chroniclers,  that  this  important  acquisi- 
tion of  territory  by  the  saintly  Fernando  was  a boon  from 
Heaven  in  reward  of  an  offering  which  he  made  to  God  of  his 
daughter  Berenguela,  whom  early  in  this  year  he  dedicated  as 
a nun  in  the  convent  of  Las  Huelgas,  in  Burgos— of  which  con- 
vent the  king’s  sister  Constanza  was  abbess.* 

About  this  time  it  was  that  King  Fernando  gave  an  instance 
of  his  maganimity  and  his  chivalrous  disposition.  We  have 
seen  the  deadly  opposition  he  had  experienced  from  the 
haughty  house  of  Lara,  and  the  ruin  which  the  three  brothers 
brought  upon  themselves  by  their  traitorous  hostility.  The 
anger  of  the  king  was  appeased  by  their  individual  ruin ; he  did 
not  desire  to  revenge  himself  upon  their  helpless  families,  nor 


* Oronica  del  Rey  Santo,  cap.  13. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


89 


to  break  down  and  annihilate  a house  lofty  and  honored  in  the 
traditions  of  Spain.  One  of  the  brothers,  Don  Fernando,  had 
left  a daughter,  Doha  Sancha  Fernandez  de  Lara;  there  hap- 
pened  at  this  time  to  be  in  Spain  a cousin-german  of  the  king, 
a prince  of  Portugal,  Don  Fernando  by  name,  who  held  the 
senoria  of  Serpa.  Between  this  prince  and  Doha  Sancha  the 
king  effected  a marriage,  whence  has  sprung  one  of  the  most 
illustrious  branches  of  the  ancient  house  of  Lara.*  The  other 
daughters  of  Don  Fernando  retained  large  possessions  in  Cas- 
tile ; and  one  of  his  sons  will  be  found  serving  valiantly  under 
the  standard  of  the  king. 

In  the  mean  time  the  truce  with  Aben  Alhamar,  the  king  of 
G ranada,  had  greatly  strengthened  the  hands  of  that  monarch. 
He  had  received  accessions  of  troops  from  various  parts,  had 
fortified  his  capital  and  his  frontiers,  and  now  fomented  dis- 
turbances in  the  neighboring  kingdom  of  Murcia— encouraging 
the  refractory  cities  to  persist  in  their  refusal  of  vassalage— 
hoping  to  annex  that  kingdom  to  his  own  newly  consolidated 
dominions. 

The  Wali  of  Lorca  and  his  partisans,  the  alcaydes  of  Mula 
and  Carthagena,  thus  instigated  by  the  King  of  Granada,  now 
increased  in  turbulence,  and  completely  overawed  the  feeble- 
handed Aben  Hudiel.  King  Fernando  thought  this  a good  op- 
portunity to  give  his  son  and  heir  his  first  essay  in  arms.  He 
accordingly  dispatched  the  prince  a second  time  to  Murcia,  ac- 
companied as  before  by  Don  Pelayo  de  Correa,  the  Grand  Mas- 
ter of  Santiago ; but  he  sent  him  now  with  a strong  military 
force,  to  play  the  part  of  a conqueror.  The  conquest,  as  may 
be  supposed,  was  easy ; Mula,  Lorca,  and  Carthagena  soon  sub- 
mitted, and  the  whole  kingdom  was  reduced  to  vassalage — 
Fernando  henceforth  adding  to  his  other  titles  King  of  Murcia. 
“ Thus,”  says  Fray  Antonio  Agapida,  “ was  another  precious 
jewel  wrested  from  the  kingdom  of  Antichrist,  and  added  to 
the  crown  of  this  saintly  monarch.  ” 

But  it  was  not  in  Murcia  alone  that  King  Fernando  found 
himself  called  to  contend  with  his  new  adversary  the  King  of 
Granada.  That  able  and  active  monarch,  strengthened  as  has 
been  said  during  the  late  truce,  had  made  bold  forays  in  the 
frontiers  recently  conquered  by  King  Fernando,  and  had  even 
extended  them  to  the  neighborhood  of  Cordova.  In  all  this  he 
had  been  encouraged  by  some  degree  of  negligence  and  inac- 


* Notas  para  la  Vida  del  Santo  Rey,  p.  554, 


90 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


tion  on  the  part  of  King  Feruando’s  brother  Alfonso,  who  had 
been  left  in  charge  of  the  frontier.  The  prince  took  the  field 
against  Aben  Alhamar,  and  fought  him  manfully;  but  the 
Moorish  force  was  too  powerful  to  be  withstood,  and  the  prince 
was  defeated. 

Tidings  of  this  was  sent  to  King  Fernando,  and  of  the  great 
danger  of  the  frontier,  as  Aben  Alhamar,  flushed  with  success, 
was  aiming  to  drive  the  Christians  out  of  Andalusia.  King 
Fernando  immediately  set  off  for  the  frontier,  accompanied  by 
the  Queen  Juana.  He  did  not  wait  to  levy  a powerful  force, 
but  took  with  him  a small  number— knowing  the  loyalty  of  his 
subjects  and  their  belligerent  propensities,  and  that  they  would 
hasten  to  his  standard  the  moment  they  knew  he  was  in  the 
field  and  exposed  to  danger.  His  force  accordingly  increased 
as  he  advanced.  At  Andujar  he  met  his  brother  Alfonso  with 
the  relies  of  his  lately  defeated  army — all  brave  and  expert 
soldiers.  He  had  now  a commanding  force,  and  leaving  the 
queen  with  a sufficient  guard  at  Andujar,  he  set  off  with  his 
brother  Alfonso  and  Don  Nuno  Gonzalez  de  Lara,  son  of  the 
Count  Gonzalo,  to  scour  the  country  about  Arjona,  Jaen,  and 
Alcandete.  The  Moors  took  refuge  in  their  strong  places, 
whence  they  saw  with  aching  hearts  the  desolation  of  their 
country — olive  plantations  on  fire,  vineyards  laid  waste,  groves 
and  orchards  cut  down,  and  all  the  other  modes  of  ravage 
practised  in  these  unsparing  wars. 

The  King  of  Granada  did  not  venture  to  take  the  field ; and 
King  Fernando,  meeting  no  enemy  to  contend  with,  while 
ravaging  the  lands  of  Alcandete,  detached  a part  of  his  force 
under  Don  Rodrigo  Fernandez  de  Castro,  a son  of  the  brave 
Alvar  Perez  lately  deceased,  and  he  associated  with  him  Nuno 
Gonzalez,  with  orders  to  besiege  Arjona.  This  was  a place 
dear  to  Aben  Alhamar,  the  King  of  Granada,  being  his  native 
place,  where  he  had  first  tasted  the  sweets  of  power.  Hence  he 
was  commonly  called  the  King  of  Arjona. 

The  people  of  the  place,  though  they  had  quailed  before  King 
Fernando,  despised  his  officers  and  set  them  at  defiance.  The 
king  himself,  however,  made  his  appearance  on  the  following 
day  with  the  remainder  of  his  forces,  whereupon  Arjona  ca- 
pitulated. 

While  his  troops  were  reposing  from  their  fatigues,  the  king 
made  some  further  ravages,  and  reduced  several  small  towns 
to  obedience.  He  then  sent  his  brother  Don  Alfonso  with  suffi- 
cient forces  to  carry  fire  and  sword  into  the  Yega  of  Granada. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


91 


In  the  mean  time  he  returned  to  Andujar  to  the  Queen  Juana. 
He  merely  came,  say  the  old  chroniclers,  for  the  purpose  of 
conducting  her  to  Cordova;  fulfilling,  always,  his  duty  as  a 
cavalier,  without  neglecting  that  of  a king. 

The  moment  he  had  left  her  in  her  palace  at  Cordova,  he 
hastened  back  to  join  his  brother  in  harassing  the  territories 
of  Granada.  He  came  in  time ; for  Aben  Alhamar,  enraged  at 
seeing  the  destruction  of  the  Vega,  made  such  a vigorous  sally, 
that  had  Prince  Alfonso  been  alone  in  command,  he  might 
have  received  a second  lesson  still  more  disastrous  than  the 
first.  The  presence  of  the  king,  however,  put  new  spirits  and 
valor  into  the  troops ; the  Moors  were  driven  back  to  the  city, 
and  the  Christians  pursued  them  to  the  very  gates.  As  the 
king  had  not  sufficient  forces  with  him  to  attempt  the  capture 
of  this  place,  he  contented  himself  with  the  mischief  he  had 
done,  and,  with  some  more  which  he  subsequently  effected,  he 
returned  to  Cordova  to  let  his  troops  rest  from  their  fatigues. 

While  the  king  was  in  this  city,  a messenger  arrived  from 
his  mother,  the  Queen  Berenguela,  informing  him  of  her  inten- 
tion of  coming  to  pay  him  a visit.  A long  time  had  elapsed 
since  they  had  seen  each  other,  and  her  extreme  age  rendered 
her  anxious  to  embrace  her  son.  The  king,  to  prevent  her 
from  taking  so  long  a journey,  set  off  to  meet  her,  taking  with 
him  his  Queen  Juana.  The  meeting  took  place  in  Pezuelo, 
near  Burgos,*  and  was  affecting  on  both  sides,  for  never  did 
son  and  mother  love  and  honor  each  other  more  truly.  In 
this  interview,  the  queen  represented  her  age  and  increasing 
weakness,  and  her  incapacity  to  cope  with  the  fatigues  of  pub- 
lic affairs,  of  which  she  had  always  shared  the  burden  with 
the  king;  she  therefore  signified  her  wish  to  retire  to  her  con- 
vent, to  pass  the  remnant  of  her  days  in  holy  repose.  King 
Fernando,  who  had  ever  found  in  his  mother  his  ablest  coun- 
sellor and  best  support,  entreated  her  not  to  leave  his  side  in 
these  arduous  times,  when  the  King  of  Granada  on  one  side, 
and  the  King  of  Seville  on  the  other,  threatened  to  put  all  his 
courage  and  resources  to  the  trial.  A long  and  earnest,  yet 
tender  and  affectionate,  conversation  succeeded  between  them, 
which  resulted  in  the  queen-mother’s  yielding  to  his  solicita- 
tions. The  illustrious  son  and  mother  remained  together  six 
weeks,  enjoying  each  other’s  society,  after  which  they  sepa* 


* Some  chroniclers,  through  mistake,  make  it  Pezuelo,  near  Ciudad  Real,  in  the 
mountains  on  the  confines  of  Granada. 


02 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


rated— the  king  and  queen  for  the  frontier,  and  the  queen- 
mother  for  Toledo.  They  were  never  to  behold  each  other 
again  upon  earth,  for  the  king  never  returned  to  Castile. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

KING  FERNANDO’S  EXPEDITION  TO  ANDALUSIA. — SIEGE  OF  JAEN. 

— SECRET  DEPARTURE  OF  ABEN  ALIIAMAR  FOR  THE  CHRISTIAN 

CAMP. — HE  ACKNOWLEDGES  HIMSELF  THE  VASSAL  OF  THE 

KING,  WHO  ENTERS  JAEN  IN  TRIUMPH. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  August,  1245,  that  King  Fernando 
set  out  on  his  grand  expedition  to  Andalusia,  whence  he  was 
never  to  return.  All  that  autumn  he  pursued  the  same  de- 
structive course  as  in  his  preceding  campaigns,  laying  waste 
the  country  with  fire  and  sword  in  the  vicinity  of  Jaen  and  to 
Alcala  la  Real.  The  town,  too,  of  Illora,  built  on  a lofty  rock 
and  fancying  itself  secure,  was  captured  and  given  a prey  to 
flames,  which  was  as  a bale-fire  to  the  country.  Thence  he 
descended  into  the  beautiful  Vega  of  Granada,  ravaging  that 
earthly  paradise.  Aben  Alhamar  sallied  forth  from  Granada 
with  what  forces  he  could  collect,  and  a bloody  battle  ensued 
about  twelve  miles  from  Granada.  A part  of  the  troops  of 
Aben  Alhamar  were  hasty  levies,  inhabitants  of  the  city,  and 
but  little  accustomed  to  combat ; they  lost  courage,  gave  way, 
and  threw  the  better  part  of  the  troops  in  disorder ; a retreat 
took  place,  which  ended  in  a headlong  flight,  in  which  there 
was  great  carnage.* 

Content  for  the  present  with  the  ravage  he  had  made,  and 
the  victory  he  had  gained,  King  Fernando  now  drew  off  his 
troops  and  repaired  to  his  frontier  hold  of  Martos,  where  they 
might  rest  after  their  fatigues  in  security. 

Here  he  was  joined  by  Hon  Pelayo  Perez  Correa,  the  Grand 
Master  of  Santiago.  This  valiant  cavalier,  who  was  as  sage 
and  shrewd  in  council  as  he  was  adroit  and  daring  in  the  field, 
had  aided  the  youthful  Prince  Alfonso  in  completing  the  tran- 
quillization  of  Murcia,  and,  leaving  him  in  the  quiet  adminis- 
tration of  affairs  in  that  kingdom,  had  since  been  on  a pious 


* Conde,  tom.  iii.  c.  5. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


93 


and  political  mission  to  tne  court  of  Rome.  He  arrived  most 
opportunely  at  Martos,  to  aid  the  king  with  his  counsels,  for 
there  was  none  in  whose  wisdom  and  loyalty  the  king  had 
more  confidence. 

The  grand  master  listened  to  all  the  plans  of  the  king  for  the 
humiliation  of  the  haughty  King  of  Granada ; he  then  gravely 
but  most  respectfully  objected  to  the  course  the  king  was  pur- 
suing. He  held  the  mere  ravaging  the  country  of  little  ulti- 
mate benefit.  It  harassed  and  irritated,  but  did  not  destroy 
the  enemy,  while  it  fatigued  and  demoralized  the  army.  To 
conquer  the  country,  they  must  not  lay  waste  the  field,  but 
take  the  towns;  so  long  as  the  Moors  retained  their  strong- 
holds, so  long  had  they  dominion  over  the  land.  He  advised, 
therefore,  as  a signal  blow  to  the  power  of  the  Moorish  king, 
the  capture  of  the  city  of  Jaen.  This  was  a city  of  immense 
strength,  the  bulwark  of  the  kingdom;  it  was  well  supplied 
with  provisions  and  the  munitions  of  war ; strongly  garrisoned 
and  commanded  by  Abu  Omar,  native  of  Cordova,  a general 
of  cavalry,  and  one  of  the  bravest  officers  of  Aben  Alhamar. 
King  Fernando  had  already  besieged  it  in  vain,  but  the  reason- 
ing of  the  grand  master  had  either  convinced  his  reason  or 
touched  his  pride.  He  set  himself  down  before  the  walls  of 
Jaen,  declaring  he  would  never  raise  the  siege  until  he  was 
master  of  the  place.  For  a long  time  the  siege  was  carried  on 
in  the  depth  of  winter,  in  defiance  of  rain  and  tempests.  Aben 
Alhamar  was  in  despair:  he  could  not  relieve  the  place;  he 
could  not  again  venture  on  a battle  with  the  king  after  his  late 
defeat.  He  saw  that  Jaen  must  fall,  and  feared  it  would  be 
followed  by  the  fall  of  Granada.  He  was  a man  of  ardent 
spirit  and  quick  and  generous  impulses.  Taking  a sudden 
resolution,  he  departed  secretly  for  the  Christian  camp,  and 
made  his  way  to  the  presence  of  King  Fernando.  “ Behold 
before  you,”  said  he,  “the  King  of  Granada.  Resistance  I 
find  unavailing;  I come,  trusting  to  your  magnanimity  and 
good  faith,  to  put  myself  under  your  protection  and  acknow- 
ledge myself  your  vassal.”  So  saying,  he  knelt  and  kissed  the 
king’s  hand  in  token  of  homage. 

“King  Fernando,”  say  the  old  chroniclers,  “was  not  to  be 
outdone  in  generosity.  He  raised  his  late  enemy  from  the 
earth,  embraced  him  as  a friend,  and  left  him  in  the  sovereignty 
of  his  dominions ; the  good  king,  however,  was  as  politic  as  he 
was  generous.  He  received  Aben  Alhamar  as  a vassal ; con- 
ditioned for  the  delivery  of  Jaen  into  his  hands;  for  the  yearly* 


94 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES . 


payment  of  one-half  of  his  revenues ; for  his  attendance  at  the 
cortes  as  one  of  the  nobles  of  the  empire,  and  his  aiding  Castile 
in  war  with  a certain  number  of  horsemen.  ” 

In  compliance  with  these  conditions,  Jaen  was  given  up  to 
the  Christian  king,  who  entered  it  in  triumph  about  the  end  of 
February.*  His  first  care  was  to  repair  in  grand  procession, 
bearing  the  holy  cross,  to  the  principal  mosque,  which  was 
purified  and  sanctified  by  the  Bishop  of  Cordova,  and  erected 
into  a cathedral  and  dedicated  to  the  most  holy  Virgin  Mary. 

lie  remained  some  time  in  Jaen,  giving  repose  to  his  troops, 
regulating  the  affairs  of  this  important  place,  disposing  of 
houses  and  estates  among  his  warriors  who  had  most  dis- 
tinguished themselves,  and  amply  rewarding  the  priests  and 
monks  who  had  aided  him  with  their  prayers. 

As  to  Aben  Alhamar,  he  returned  to  Granada,  relieved  from 
apprehension  of  impending  ruin  to  his  kingdom,  but  deeply 
humiliated  at  having  to  come  under  the  yoke  of  vassalage. 
He  consoled  himself  by  prosecuting  the  arts  of  peace,  improv- 
ing the  condition  of  his  people,  building  hospitals,  founding 
institutions  of  learning,  and  beautifying  his  capital  with  those 
magnificent  edifices  which  remain  the  admiration  of  posterity ; 
for  now  it  was  that  he  commenced  to  build  the  Alhambra. 

Note.— There  is  some  dispute  among  historians  as  to  the  duration  of  the  siege 
and  the  date  of  the  surrender  of  Jaen.  Some  make  the  siege  endure  eight  months, 
from  August  into  the  middle  of  April.  The  authentic  Agapida  adopts  the  opinion 
of  the  author  of  Notas  para  la  Vida  del  Santo  Rey , etc.,  who  makes  the  siege  begin 
on  the  31st  December  and  end  about  the  26tli  February. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

AXATAF,  KING  OF  SEVILLE,  EXASPERATED  AT  THE  SUBMISSION  OF 
THE  KING  OF  GRANADA,  REJECTS  THE  PROPOSITIONS  OF  KING 
FERDINAND  FOR  A TRUCE.— THE  LATTER  IS  ENCOURAGED  BY  A 
VISION  TO  UNDERTAKE  THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  CITY  OF  SE- 
VILLE.—DEATH  OF  QUEEN  BERENGUELA.  — A DIPLOMATIC  MAR- 
RIAGE. 

King  Fernando,  having  reduced  the  fair  kingdom  of  Gra- 
nada to  vassalage,  and  fortified  himself  in  Andalusia  by  the 
possession  of  the  strong  city  of  Jaen,  bethought  him  now  of 


* Notas  para  la  Vida  del  Santo  Rey,  p.  562. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


95 


returning  to  Castile.  There  was  but  one  Moorish  potentate  in 
Spain  whose  hostilities  he  had  to  fear : this  was  Axataf,  the 
King  of  Seville.  He  was  the  son  of  Aben  Hud,  and  succeeded 
to  a portion  of  his  territories.  Warned  by  the  signal  defeat  of 
his  father  at  Xerez,  he  had  forborne  to  take  the  field  against 
the  Christians,  but  had  spared  no  pains  and  expense  to  put  the 
city  of  Seville  in  the  highest  state  of  defence  ; strengthening 
its  walls  and  towers,  providing  it  with  munitions  of  war  of  all 
kinds,  and  exercising  his  people  continually  in  the  use  of  arms. 
King  Fernando  was  loth  to  leave  this  great  frontier  in  its 
present  unsettled  state,  with  such  a powerful  enemy  in  the 
neighborhood,  who  might  take  advantage  of  his  absence  to 
break  into  open  hostility ; still  it  was  his  policy  to  let  the  sword 
rest  in  the  sheath  until  he  had  completely  secured  his  new  pos- 
sessions. He  sought,  therefore,  to  make  a truce  with  King 
Axataf,  and,  to  enforce  his  propositions,  it  is  said  he  appeared 
with  his  army  before  Seville  in  May,  1246.*  His  propositions 
were  rejected,  as  it  were,  at  the  very  gate.  It  appears  that 
the  King  of  Seville  was  exasperated  rather  than  dismayed  by 
the  submission  of  the  King  of  Granada.  He  felt  that  on  him- 
self depended  the  last  hope  of  Islamism  in  Spain  ; he  trusted 
on  aid  from  the  coast  of  Barbary,  with  which  his  capital  had 
ready  communication  by  water ; and  he  resolved  to  make  a 
bold  stand  in  the  cause  of  his  faith. 

King  Fernando  retired  indignant  from  before  Seville,  and 
repaired  to  Cordova,  with  the  pious  determination  to  punish 
the  obstinacy  and  humble  the  pride  of  the  infidel,  by  planting 
the  standard  of  the  cross  on  the  walls  of  his  capital.  Seville 
once  in  his  power,  the  rest  of  Andalusia  would  soon  follow, 
and  then  his  triumph  over  the  sect  of  Mahomet  would  be 
complete.  Other  reasons  may  have  concurred  to  make  him 
covet  the  conquest  of  Seville.  It  was  a city  of  great  splendor 
and  wealth,  situated  in  the  midst  of  a fertile  country,  in  a 
genial  climate,  under  a benignant  sky  ; and  having  by  its  river, 
the  Guadalquivir,  an  open  highway  for  commerce,  it  was  the 
metropolis  of  all  Morisma — a world  of  wealth  and  delight 
within  itself. 

These  were  sufficient  reasons  for  aiming  at  the  conquest  of 
this  famous  city,  but  these  were  not  sufficient  to  satisfy  the 
holy  friars  who  have  written  the  history  of  this  monarch,  and 
who  have  found  a reason  more  befitting  his  character  of  saint. 


* Notas  para  la  Vida  del  Santo  Key,  p.  572. 


S6 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


Accordingly  wo  arc  told,  by  the  worthy  F ray  Antonio  Agapida, 
that  at  a time  when  the  king  was  in  deep  affliction  for  the 
death  of  his  mother,  the  Queen  Berenguela,  and  was  praying 
with  great  fervor,  there  appeared  before  him  Saint  Isidro,  the 
great  Apostle  of  Spain,  who  had  been  Archbishop  of  Seville  in 
old  times,  before  the  perdition  of  Spain  by  the  Moors.  As  the 
monarch  gazed  in  reverend  wonder  at  the  vision,  the  saint  laid 
on  him  a solemn  injunction  to  rescue  from  the  empire  of  Ma- 
homet his  city  of  Seville.  “Que  asi  la  llamo  por  suya  en  la 
patria,  suya  en  la  silla,  y suya  en  la  protection.”  “Such,” 
says  Agapida,  ‘ ‘ was  the  true  reason  why  this  pious  king  un- 
dertook the  conquest  of  Seville;”  and  in  this  assertion  he  is 
supported  by  many  Spanish  chroniclers ; and  by  the  traditions 
of  the  Church — the  vision  of  San  Isidro  being  read  to  this 
day  among  its  services.  * 

The  death  of  Queen  Berenguela,  to  which  we  have  just  ad- 
verted, happened  some  months  after  the  conquest  of  Jaen  and 
submission  of  Granada.  The  grief  of  the  king  on  hearing  the 
tidings,  we  are  told,  was  past  description.  For  a time  it  quite 
overwhelmed  him.  “ Nor  is  it  much  to  be  marvelled  at,”  says 
an  old  chronicler ; ‘ ‘ for  never  did  monarch  lose  a mother  so 
noble  and  magnanimous  in  all  her  actions.  She  was  indeed  ac- 
complished in  all  things,  an  example  of  every  virtue,  the  mirror 
of  Castile  and  Leon  and  all  Spain,  by  whose  counsel  and  wisdom 
the  affairs  of  many  kingdoms  were  governed.  This  noble 
queen,”  continues  the  chronicler,  “was  deplored  in  all  the 
cities,  towns,  and  villages  cf  Castile  and  Leon ; by  all  people, 
great  and  small,  but  especially  by  poor  cavaliers , to  whom  she 
was  ever  a benefactress.”! 

Another  heavy  loss  to  King  Fernando,  about  this  time,  was 
that  of  the  Archbishop  of  Toledo,  Don  Rodrigo,  the  great  ad- 
viser of  the  king  in  all  his  expeditions,  and  the  prelate  who 
first  preached  the  grand  crusade  in  Spain.  He  lived  a life  of 
* piety,  activity,  and  zeal,  and  died  full  of  ^ears,  of  honors,  and 
of  riches— having  received  princely  estates  and  vast  revenues 
from  the  king  in  reward  of  his  services  in  the  cause. 

These  private  afflictions  for  a time  occupied  the  royal  mind ; 
the  king  was  also  a little  disturbed  by  some  rash  proceedings  of 
his  son,  the  hereditary  Prince  Alfonso,  who,  being  left  in  the 
government  of  Murcia,  took  a notion  of  imitating  his  father 


* Rodriguez,  Memorias  del  Santo  Rey,  c.  Ivin, 
t Cronica  del  Rey  Don  Fernando,  c.  xiii, 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


97 


in  his  conquests,  and  made  an  inroad  into  the  Moorish  king- 
dom of  Valencia,  at  that  time  in  a state  of  confusion.  This 
brought  on  a collision  with  King  Jayme  of  Aragon,  surnamed 
the  Conqueror,  who  had  laid  his  hand  upon  all  Valencia,  as 
his  by  right  of  arms.  There  was  thus  danger  of  a rupture 
with  Aragon,  and  of  King  Fernando  having  an  enemy  on  his 
back,  while  busied  in  his  wars  in  Andalusia.  Fortunately 
King  Jayme  had  a fair  daughter,  the  Princess  Violante;  and 
the  grave  diplomatists  of  the  two  courts  determined  that  it 
were  better  the  two  children  should  marry,  than  the  two 
fathers  should  fight.  To  this  arrangement  King  Fernando 
and  King  Jayme  gladly  assented.  They  were  both  of  the 
same  faith ; both  proud  of  the  name  of  Christian ; both  zealous 
in  driving  Mahometanism  out  of  Spain,  and  in  augmenting 
their  empires  with  its  spoils.  The  marriage  was  accordingly 
solemnized  in  Valladolid  in  the  month  of  November  in  this 
same  year;  and  now  the  saintly  King  Fernando  turned  his 
whole  energies  to  this  great  and  crowning  achievement,  the 
conquest  of  Seville,  the  emporium  of  Mahometanism  in  Spain. 

Foreseeing,  as  long  as  the  mouth  of  the  Guadalquivir  was 
open,  the  city  could  receive  reinforcements  and  supplies  from 
Africa,  the  king  held  consultations  with  a wealthy  man  of 
Burgos,  Ramon  Bonifaz,  or  Boniface,  by  name — some  say  a 
native  of  France — one  well  experienced  in  maritime  affairs, 
and  capable  of  fitting  out  and  managing  a fleet.  This  man  he 
constituted  his  admiral,  and  sent  him  to  Biscay  to  provide  and 
arm  a fleet  of  ships  and  galleys,  with  which  to  attack  Seville 
by  water,  while  the  king  should  invest  it  by  land. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

INVESTMENT  OF  SEVILLE. — ALL  SPAIN  AROUSED  TO  ARMS . - — SUR- 
RENDER OF  ALCALA  DEL  RIO. — THE  FLEET  OF  ADMIRAL  RAMON 
BONIFAZ  ADVANCES  UP  THE  QUADALQUIVIR. — DON  PELAYO 
CORREA,  MASTER  OF  SANTIAGO. — HIS  VALOROUS  DEEDS  AND 
THE  MIRACLES  WROUGHT  IN  HIS  BEHALF. 

When  it  was  bruited  about  that  King  Fernando  the  Saint 
intended  to  besiege  the  great  city  of  Seville,  all  Spain  was 
roused  to  arms.  The  masters  of  the  various  military  and 


98 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


religious  orders,  the  ricos  hombres,  the  princes,  cavaliers, 
hidalgos,  and  every  one  of  Castile  and  Leon  capable  of  bearing 
arms,  prepared  to  take  the  field.  Many  of  the  nobility  of 
Catalonia  and  Portugal  repaired  to  the  standard  of  the  king, 
as  did  other  cavaliers  of  worth  and  prowess  from  lands  far 
beyond  the  Pyrenees. 

Prelates,  priests,  and  monks  likewise  thronged  to  the  army 
— some  to  take  care  of  the  souls  of  those  who  hazarded  their 
lives  in  this  holy  enterprise,  others  with  a zealous  determina- 
tion to  grasp  buckler  and  lance,  and  battle  with  the  arm  of 
flesh  against  the  enemies  of  God  and  the  Church. 

At  the  opening  of  spring  the  assembled  host  issued  forth  in 
shining  array  from  the  gates  of  Cordova.  After  having  gained 
possession  of  Carmona,  and  Lora,  and  Alcolea,  and  of  other 
neighboring  places — some  by  voluntary  surrender,  others  by 
force  of  arms— the  king  crossed  the  Guadalquivir,  with  great 
difficulty  and  peril,  and  made  himself  master  of  several  of  the 
most  important  posts  in  the  neighborhood  of  Seville.  Among 
these  was  Alcala  del  Eio,  a place  of  great  consequence,  through 
which  passed  all  the  succors  from  the  mountains  to  the  city. 
This  place  was  bravely  defended  by  Axataf  in  person,  the 
commander  of  Seville.  He  remained  in  Alcala  with  three 
hundred  Moorish  cavaliers,  making  frequent  sallies  upon  the 
Christians,  and  effecting  great  slaughter.  At  length  he  beheld 
all  the  country  around  laid  waste,  the  grain  burnt  or  trampled 
down,  the  vineyards  torn  up,  the  cattle  driven  away  and  the 
villages  consumed;  so  that  nothing  remained  to  give  suste- 
nance  to  the  garrison  or  the  inhabitants.  Not  daring  to  linger 
there  any  longer,  he  departed  secretly  in  the  night  and  retired 
to  Seville,  and  the  town  surrendered  to  King  Fernando. 

While  the  king  was  putting  Alcala  del  Eio  in  a state  of  de- 
fence, Admiral  Eamon  Bomfaz  arrived  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Guadalquivir  with  a fleet  of  thirteen  large  ships,  and  several 
small  vessels  and  galleys.  While  he  was  yet  hovering  about 
the  land,  he  heard  of  the  approach  of  a great  force  of  ships 
for  Tangier,  Ceuta,  and  Seville,  and  of  an  army  to  assail  him 
from  the  shores.  In  this  peril  he  sent  in  all  speed  for  succor 
to  the  king ; when  it  reached  the  sea-coast  the  enemy  had  not 
yet  appeared;  wherefore,  thinking  it  a false  alarm,  the  rein- 
forcement returned  to  the  camp.  Scarcely,  however,  had  it 
departed  when  the  Africans  came  swarming  over  the  sea,  and 
fell  upon  Eamon  Bonifaz  with  a greatly  superior  force.  The 
admiral,  in  no  way  dismayed,  defended  himself  vigorously— 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


99 


sunk  several  of  the  enemy,  took  a few  prizes,  and  put  the 
rest  to  flight,  remaining  master  of  the  river.  The  king  had 
heard  of  the  peril  of  the  fleet,  and,  crossing  the  ford  of  the 
river,  had  hastened  to  its  aid;  but  when  he  came  to  the  sea- 
coast,  he  found  it  victorious,  at  which  he  was  greatly  re- 
joiced, and  commanded  that  it  should  advance  higher  up  the 
river. 

It  was  on  the  twentieth  of  the  month  of  August  that  King 
Fernando  began  formally  the  siege  of  Seville,  having  en- 
camped his  troops,  small  in  number,  but  of  stout  hearts  and 
valiant  hands,  near  to  the  city  on  the  banks  of  the  river.  From 
hence  Don  Pelayo  Correa,  the  valiant  Master  of  Santiago, 
with  two  hundred  and  sixty  horsemen,  many  of  whom  were 
warlike  friars,  attempted  to  cross  the  river  at  the  ford  below 
Aznal  Farache.  Upon  this,  Aben  Amaken,  Moorish  king  of 
Niebla,  sallied  forth  with  a great  host  to  defend  the  pass,  and 
the  cavaliers  were  exposed  to  imminent  peril,  until  the  king 
sent  one  hundred  cavaliers  to  their  aid,  led  on  by  Rodrigo 
Flores  and  Alonzo  Tellez  and  Fernan  Dianez. 

Thus  reinforced,  the  Master  of  Santiago  scoured  the  opposite 
side  of  the  river,  and  with  his  little  army  of  scarce  four  hun- 
dred horsemen,  mingled  monks  and  soldiers,  spread  dismay 
throughout  the  country.  They  attacked  the  town  of  Gelbes, 
and,  after  a desperate  combat,  entered  it,  sword  in  hand,  slay- 
ing or  capturing  the  Moors,  and  making  rich  booty.  They 
made  repeated  assaults  upon  the  castle  of  Triana,  and  had 
bloody  combats  with  its  garrison,  but  could  not  take  the  place. 
This  hardy  band  of  cavaliers  had  pitched  their  tents  and  formed 
their  little  camp  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  below  the  castle  of 
Aznal  Farache.  This  fortress  was  situated  on  an  eminence 
above  the  river,  and  its  massive  ruins,  remaining  at  the  pres- 
ent day,  attest  its  formidable  strength. 

When  the  Moors  from  the  castle  towers  looked  down  upon 
this  little  camp  of  Christian  cavaliers,  and  saw  them  sallying 
forth  and  careering  about  the  country,  and  returning  in  the 
evenings  with  cavalcades  of  sheep  and  cattle,  and  mules  laden 
with  spoil,  and  long  trains  of  captives,  they  were  exceedingly 
wroth,  and  they  kept  a watch  upon  them,  and  sallied  forth 
every  day  to  fight  with  them,  and  to  intercept  stragglers  from 
their  camp,  and  to  carry  off  their  horses.  Then  the  cavaliers 
concerted  together,  and  they  lay  in  ambush  one  day  in  the 
road  by  which  the  Moors  were  accustomed  to  sally  forth,  and 
when  the  Moors  had  partly  passed  their  ambush,  they  rushed 


100 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


forth  and  fell  upon  them,  and  killed  and  captured  above  three 
hundred,  and  pursued  the  remainder  to  the  very  gates  of  the 
castle.  From  that  time  the  Moors  were  so  disheartened  that 
they  made  no  further  sallies. 

Shortly  after,  the  Master  of  Santiago  receiving  secret  intelli 
gence  that  a Moorish  sea-captain  had  passed  from  Seville  to 
Triana,  on  his  way  to  succor  the  castle  of  Aznal  Farache, 
placed  himself,  with  a number  of  chosen  cavaliers,  in  ambus- 
cade at  a pass  by  which  the  Moors  were  expected  to  come. 
After  waiting  a long  time,  their  scouts  brought  word  that  the 
Moors  had  taken  another  road,  and  were  nearly  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill  on  which  stood  the  castle.  “ Cavaliers,”  cried  the  mas- 
ter, “it  is  not  too  late;  let  us  first  use  our  spurs  and  then  our 
weapons,  and  if  our  steeds  prove  good,  the  day  will  yet  be 
ours.”  So  saying,  he  put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  the  rest  fol- 
lowing his  example,  they  soon  came  in  sight  of  the  Moors. 
The  latter,  seeing  the  Christians  coming  after  them  full  speed, 
urged  their  horses  up  the  hill  toward  the  castle,  but  the  Chris- 
tians overtook  them  and  slew  seven  of  those  in  the  rear.  In 
the  skirmish,  Garci  Perez  struck  the  Moorish  captain  from  his 
horse  with  a blow  of  his  lance.  The  Christians  rushed  forward 
to  take  him  prisoner.  On  seeing  this,  the  Moors  turned  back, 
threw  themselves  between  their  commander  and  his  assailants, 
and  kept  the  latter  in  check  while  he  was  conveyed  into  the 
castle.  Several  of  them  fell  covered  wTith  wounds ; the  residue, 
seeing  their  chieftain  safe,  turned  their  reins  and  galloped  for 
the  castle,  just  entering  in  time  to  have  the  gates  closed  upon 
their  pursuers. 

Time  and  space  permit  not  to  recount  the  many  other  valor- 
ous deeds  of  Don  Pelayo  Correa,  the  good  Master  of  Santiago, 
and  his  band  of  cavaliers  and  monks.  His  little  camp  became 
a terror  to  the  neighborhood,  and  checked  the  sallies  of  the 
Moorish  mountaineers  from  the  Sierra  Morena.  In  one  of  his 
enterprises  he  gained  a signal  advantage  over  the  foe,  but  the 
approach  of  night  threatened  to  defraud  him  of  his  victory. 
Then  the  pious  warrior  lifted  up  his  voice  and  supplicated  the 
Virgin  Mary  in  those  celebrated  words,  “Santa  Maria  deten 
tu  dia”  (Holy  Mary,  detain  thy  day),  for  it  was  one  of  the  days 
consecrated  to  the  Virgin.  The  blessed  Virgin  listened  to  the 
prayer  of  her  valiant  votary ; the  daylight  continued  in  a su- 
pernatural manner,  until  the  victory  of  the  good  Master  of 
Santiago  was  completed.  In  honor  of  this  signal  favor,  he 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT.  101 

afterward  erected  a temple  to  the  Virgin  by  the  name  of  Nues- 
tra  Senora  de  Tentudia.  * 

If  any  one  should  doubt  this  miracle,  wrought  in  favor  of 
this  pious  warrior  and  his  soldiers  of  the  cowl,  it  may  be  suf- 
ficient to  relate  another,  which  immediately  succeeded,  and 
which  shows  how  peculiarly  he  was  under  the  favor  of  Hea- 
ven. After  the  battle  was  over,  his  followers  were  ready  to 
faint  with  thirst,  and  could  find  no  stream  or  fountain ; and 
when  the  good  master  saw  the  distress  of  his  soldiers,  his  heart 
was  touched  with  compassion,  and,  bethinking  himself  of  the 
miracle  performed  by  Moses,  in  an  impulse  of  holy  zeal  and 
confidence,  and  in  the  name  of  the  blessed  Virgin,  he  struck 
a dry  and  barren  rock  with  his  lance,  and  instantly  there 
gushed  forth  a fountain  of  water,  at  which  all  his  Christian 
soldiery  drank  and  were  refreshed.!  So  much  at  present  for 
the  good  Master  of  Santiago,  Don  Pelayo  Correa. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

KING  FERNANDO  CHANGES  HIS  CAMP.— GARCI  PEREZ  AND  THE 

SEVEN  MOORS. 

King  Fernando  the  Saint  soon  found  his  encampment  on 
the  banks  of  the  Guadalquivir  too  much  exposed  to  the  sudden 
sallies  and  assaults  of  the  Moors.  As  the  land  was  level,  they 
easily  scoured  the  fields,  carried  off  horses  and  stragglers  from 
the  camp,  and  kept  it  in  continual  alarm.  He  drew  off,  there- 
fore, to  a securer  place,  called  Tablada,  the  same  where  at 
present  is  situated  the  hermitage  of  Nuestra  Senora  de  el 
Balme.  Here  he  had  a profound  ditch  digged  all  round  the 
camp,  to  shut  up  the  passes  from  the  Moorish  cavalry.  He 
appointed  patrols  of  horsemen  also,  completely  armed,  who 
continually  made  the  rounds  of  the  camp,  in  successive  bands, 
at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night,  t In  a little  while  his  army 
was  increased  by  the  arrival  of  troops  from  all  parts — nobles, 


* Zuniga:  Annales  de  Sevilla,  L.  1. 

+ Jacob  Paranes:  Lib.  de  los  Maestros  de  St.  Iago.  Cronica  Gotica,  T.  3,  § xili 
Zuniga:  Annales  de  Sevilla. 

% Cronica  Gotica,  T.  3,  § viii, 


102 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


cavaliers,  and  rich  men,  with  their  retainers — nor  were  their 
wanting  holy  prelates,  who  assumed  the  warrior,  and  brought 
large  squadrons  of  well-armed  vassals  to  the  army.  Merchants 
and  artificers  now  daily  arrived,  and  wandering  minstrels, 
and  people  of  all  sorts,  and  the  camp  appeared  like  a warlike 
city,  where  rich  and  sumptuous  merchandise  was  mingled 
with  the  splendor  of  arms ; and  the  various  colors  of  the  tents 
and  pavilions,  and  the  fluttering  standards  and  pennons  bear- 
ing the  painted  devices  of  the  proudest  houses  of  Spain,  were 
gay  and  glorious  to  behold. 

When  the  king  had  established  the  camp  in  Tablada  he  or- 
dered that  every  day  the  foragers  should  sally  forth  in  search 
of  provisions  and  provender,  guarded  by  strong  bodies  of 
troops.  The  various  chiefs  of  the  army  took  turns  to  com- 
mand the  guard  who  escorted  the  foragers.  One  day  it  was 
the  turn  of  Garci  Perez,  the  same  cavalier  who  had  killed  the 
king  of  the  Azules.  He  was  a hardy,  iron  warrior,  seasoned  and 
scarred  in  warfare,  and  renowned  among  both  Moors  and  Chris- 
tians for  his  great  prowess,  his  daring  courage,  and  his  coolness 
in  the  midst  of  danger.  Garci  Perez  had  lingered  in  the  camp 
until  some  time  after  the  foragers  had  departed,  who  were 
already  out  of  sight.  He  at  length  set  out  to  join  them,  ac- 
companied by  another  cavalier.  They  had  not  proceeded  far 
before  they  perceived  seven  Moorish  genetes,  or  light-horse- 
men,  directly  in  their  road.  When  the  companion  of  Garci 
Perez  beheld  such  a formidable  array  of  foes,  he  paused  and 
said:  “ Senor  Perez,  let  us  return;  the  Moors  are  seven  and  we 
are  but  two,  and  there  is  no  law  in  the  duello  which  obliges  us 
to  make  front  against  such  fearful  odds.” 

To  this  Garci  Perez  replied:  “ Senor,  forward,  always  for- 
ward; let  us  continue  on  our  road;  those  Moors  will  never 
wait  for  us.”  The  other  cavalier,  however,  exclaimed  against 
such  rashness,  and  turning  the  reins  of  his  horse,  returned  as 
privately  as  possible  to  the  camp,  and  hastened  to  his  tent. 

All  this  happened  within  sight  of  the  camp.  The  king  was 
at  the  door  of  his  royal  tent,  which  stood  on  a rising  ground 
and  overlooked  the  place  where  this  occurred.  When  the  king 
saw  one  cavalier  return  and  the  other  continue,  notwithstand- 
ing that  there  were  seven  Moors  in  the  road,  he  ordered  that 
some  horsemen  should  ride  forth  to  his  aid. 

Upon  this  Don  Lorenzo  Xuarez,  who  was  with  the  king  and 
had  seen  Garci  Perez  sally  forth  from  the  camp,  said:  u Your 
majesty  may  leave  that  cavalier  to  himself;  that  is  Garci 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  TIIE  SAINT 


103 


Perez,  and  he  has  no  need  of  aid  against  seven  Moors.  If  the 
Moors  know  him  they  will  not  meddle  with  him ; and  if  they 
do,  your  majesty  will  see  what  kind  of  a cavalier  he  is.” 

They  continued  to  watch  the  cavalier,  who  rode  on  tran- 
quilly as  if  in  no  apprehension.  When  he  drew  nigh  to  the 
Moors,  who  were  drawn  up  on  each  side  of  the  road,  he  took 
his  arms  from  his  squire  and  ordered  him  not  to  separate  from 
him.  As  he  was  lacing  his  morion , an  embroidered  cap  which 
he  wore  on  his  head  fell  to  the  ground  without  his  perceiving 
it.  Having  laced  the  capellina,  he  continued  on  his  way,  and 
his  squire  after  him.  When  the  Moors  saw  him  near  by  they 
knew  by  his  arms  that  it  was  Garci  Perez,  and  bethinking 
them  of  his  great  renown  for  terrible  deeds  in  arms,  they  did 
not  dare  to  attack  him,  but  went  along  the  road  even  with 
him,  he  on  one  side,  they  on  the  other,  making  menaces. 

Garci  Perez  went  on  his  road  with  great  serenity,  without 
making  any  movement.  When  the  Moors  saw  that  he  heeded 
not  their  menaces,  they  turned  round  and  went  back  to  about 
the  place  where  he  dropped  his  cap. 

Having  arrived  at  some  distance  from  the  Moors,  he  took  off 
his  arms  to  return  them  to  his  squire,  and  unlacing  the  capel- 
lina, found  that  the  cap  was  wanting.  He  asked  the  squire 
for  it,  but  the  latter  knew  nothing  about  it.  Seeing  that  it 
had  fallen,  he  again  demanded  his  arms  of  the  squire  and  re- 
turned in  search  of  it,  telling  his  squire  to  keep  close  behind 
him  and  look  out  well  for  it.  The  squire  remonstrated. 
“What,  senor,”  said  he,  “will  you  return  and  place  yourself 
in  such  great  peril  for  a mere  capa?  Have  you  not  already 
done  enough  for  your  honor,  in  passing  so  daringly  by  seven 
Moors,  and  have  you  not  been  singularly  favored  by  fortune 
in  escaping  unhurt,  and  do  you  seek  again  to  tempt  fortune 
for  a cap?” 

“Say  no  more,”  replied  Garci  Perez;  “ that  cap  was  worked 
for  me  by  a fair  lady ; I hold  it  of  great  value.  Besides,  dost 
thou  not  see  that  I have  not  a head  to  be  without  a cap?”  allud- 
ing to  the  baldness  of  his  head,  which  had  no  hair  m front. 
So  saying,  he  tranquilly  returned  toward  the  Moors.  When 
Don  Lorenzo  Xuarez  saw  this,  he  said  to  the  king : 4 4 Behold ! 
your  majesty,  how  Garci  Perez  turns  upon  the  Moors;  since 
they  will  not  make  an  attack,  he  means  to  attack  them.  Now 
your  majesty  will  see  the  noble  valor  of  this  cavalier,  if  the 
Moors  dare  to  await  him.”  When  the  Moors  beheld  Garci 
‘Perez  approaching  they  thought  he  meant  to  assault  them. 


104 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


and  drew  off,  not  daring  to  encounter  him.  When  Don  Lo- 
renzo saw  this  he  exclaimed : 

“Behold!  your  majesty,  the  truth  of  what  I told  you. 
These  Moors  dare  not  wait  for  him.  I knew  well  the  valor  of 
Garci  Perez^  and  it  appears  the  Moors  are  aware  of  it  like- 
wise.” 

In  the  mean  time  Garci  Perez  came  to  the  place  where  the 
capa  had  fallen,  and  beheld  it  upon  the  earth.  Then  he  ordered 
his  squire  to  dismount  and  pick  it  up,  and  putting  it  deliber- 
erately  on  his  head,  he  continued  on  his  way  to  the  foragers. 

When  he  returned  to  the  camp  from  guarding  the  foragers, 
Don  Lorenzo  asked  him,  in  presence  of  the  king,  who  was 
the  cavalier  who  had  set  out  with  him  from  the  camp,  but  had 
turned  back  on  sight  of  the  Moors ; he  replied  that  he  did  not 
know  him,  and  he  was  confused,  for  he  perceived  that  the 
king  had  witnessed  what  had  passed,  and  he  was  so  modest 
withal,  that  he  was  ever  embarrassed  when  his  deeds  were 
praised  in  his  presence. 

Don  Lorenzo  repeatedly  asked  him  who  was  the  recreant 
cavalier,  but  he  always  replied  that  he  did  not  know,  although 
he  knew  full  well  and  saw  him  daily  in  the  camp.  But  he  was 
too  generous  to  say  anything  that  should  take  away  the  fame 
of  another,  and  he  charged  his  squire  that  never,  by  word  or 
look,  he  should  betray  the  secret;  so  that,  though  inquiries 
were  often  made,  the  name  of  that  cavalier  was  never  dis- 
covered. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

OF  THE  RAFT  BUILT  BY  THE  MOORS,  AND  HOW  IT  WAS  BOARDED 

BY  ADMIRAL  BONIFAZ. — DESTRUCTION  OF  THE  MOORISH  FLEET. 

— SUCCOR  FROM  AFRICA. 

While  the  army  of  King  Fernando  the  Saint  harassed  the 
city  by  land  and  cut  off  its  supplies,  the  bold  Bonifaz,  with  his 
fleet,  shut  up  the  river,  prevented  all  succor  from  Africa,  and 
menaced  to  attack  the  bridge  between  Triana  and  Seville,  by 
which  the  city  derived  its  sustenance  from  the  opposite  coun- 
try. The  Moors  saw  their  peril.  If  this  pass  were  destroyed, 
famine  must  be  the  consequence,  and  the  multitude  of  their 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT.  105 

soldiers,  on  which  at  present  they  relied  for  safety,  would  then 
become  the  cause  of  their  destruction. 

So  the  Moors  devised  a machine  by  which  they  hoped  to 
sweep  the  river  and  involve  the  invading  fleet  in  ruin.  They 
made  a raft  so  wide  that  it  reached  from  one  bank  to  the  other, 
and  they  placed  all  around  it  pots  and  vessels  filled  with  resin, 
pitch,  tar,  and  other  combustibles,  forming  what  is  called 
Greek  fire,  and  upon  it  was  a great  number  of  armed  men ; and 
on  each  shore — from  the  castle  of  Triana  on  the  one  side,  and 
from  the  city  on  the  other — sallied  forth  legions  of  troops,  to 
advance  at  the  same  time  with  the  raft.  The  raft  was  preceded 
by  several  vessels  well  armed,  to  attack  the  Christian  ships, 
while  the  soldiers  on  the  raft  should  hurl  on  board  their  pots  of 
fire;  and  at  length,  setting  all  the  combustibles  in  a blaze, 
should  send  the  raft  flaming  into  the  midst  of  the  hostile  fleet, 
and  wrap  it  in  one  general  conflagration. 

When  everything  was  prepared,  the  Moors  set  off  by  land 
and  water,  confident  of  success.  But  they  proceeded  in  a wild, 
irregular  manner,  shouting  and  sounding  drums  and  trumpets, 
and  began  to  attack  the  Christian  ships  fiercely,  but  without 
concert,  hurling  their  pots  of  fire  from  a distance,  filling  the  air 
with  smoke,  but  falling  short  of  their  enemy.  The  tumultuous 
uproar  of  their  preparations  had  put  all  the  Christians  on  their 
guard.  The  bold  Bonifaz  waited  not  to  be  assailed ; he  boarded 
the  raft,  attacked  vigorously  its  defenders,  put  many  of  them 
to  the  sword,  and  drove  the  rest  into  the  water,  and  succeeded 
in  extinguishing  the  Greek  fire.  He  then  encountered  the  ships 
of  war,  grappling  them  and  fighting  hand  to  hand  from  ship  to 
ship.  The  action  was  furious  and  bloody,  and  lasted  all  the 
day.  Many  were  cut  down  in  flight,  many  fell  into  the  water, 
and  many  in  despair  threw  themselves  in  and  were  drowned. 

The  battle  had  raged  no  less  fiercely  upon  the  land.  On  the 
side  of  Seville,  the  troops  had  issued  from  the  camp  of  King 
Fernando,  while  on  the  opposite  shore  the  brave  Master  of  San- 
tiago, Don  Pelayo  Perez  Correa,  with  his  warriors  and  fighting 
friars,  had  made  sharp  work  with  the  enemy.  In  this  way  a 
triple  battle  was  carried  on ; there  was  the  rush  of  squadrons, 
the  clash  of  arms,  and  the  din  of  drums  and  trumpets  on  either 
bank,  while  the  river  was  covered  with  vessels,  tearing  each 
other  to  pieces  as  it  were,  their  crews  fighting  in  the  midst  of 
flames  and  smoke,  the  waves  red  with  blood  and  filled  with  the 
bodies  of  the  slain.  At  length  the  Christians  were  victorious ; 
most  of  the  enemy’s  vessels  we  re  taken  or  destroyed,  and  on 


106 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


either  shore  the  Moors,  broken  and  discomfited,  fled — those  on 
the  one  side  for  the  gates  of  Seville,  and  those  on  the  other  for 
the  castle  of  Triana — pursued  with  great  slaughter  by  the 
victors. 

Notwithstanding  the  great  destruction  of  their  fleet,  the 
Moors  soon  renewed  their  attempts  upon  the  ships  of  Ramon 
Bonifaz,  for  they  knew  that  the  salvation  of  the  city  required 
the  freedom  of  the  river.  Succor  arrived  from  Africa,  of  ships, 
with  troops  and  provisions ; they  rebuilt  the  fire-ships  which . 
had  been  destroyed,  and  incessant  combats,  feints,  and  strata- 
gems took  place  daily,  both  on  land  and  water.  The  admiral 
stood  in  great  dread  of  the  Greek  fire  used  by  the  Moors.  He 
caused  large  stakes  of  wood  to  be  placed  in  the  river,  to  pre- 
vent the  passage  of  the  fire-ships.  This  for  some  time  was  of 
avail ; but  the  Moors,  watching  an  opportunity  when  the  senti- 
nels were  asleep,  came  and  threw  cables  round  the  stakes,  and 
fastening  the  other  ends  to  their  vessels,  made  all  sail,  and,  by 
the  help  of  wind  and  oars,  tore  away  the  stakes  and  carried 
them  off  with  shouts  of  triumph.  The  clamorous  exultation  of 
the  Moors  betrayed  them.  The  Admiral  Bonifaz  was  aroused. 
With  a few  of  the  lightest  of  his  vessels  he  immediately  pur- 
sued the  enemy.  He  came  upon  them  so  suddenly  that  they 
were  too  much  bewildered  either  to  fight  or  fly.  Some  threw 
themselves  into  the  waves  in  affright;  others  attempted  to 
make  resistance  and  were  cut  down.  The  admiral  took  four 
barks  laden  with  arms  and  provisions,  and  with  these  returned 
in  triumph  to  his  fleet.* 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

OF  THE  STOUT  PRIOR,  FERRAN  RUYZ,  AND  HOW  HE  RESCUED  HIS 
CATTLE  FROM  THE  MOORS. — FURTHER  ENTERPRISES  OF  THE 
PRIOR,  AND  OF  THE  AMBUSCADE  INTO  WHICH  HE  FELL. 

It  happened  one  day  that  a great  part  of  the  cavaliers  of  the 
army  were  absent,  some  making  cavalgadas  about  the  country, 
others  guarding  the  foragers,  and  others  gone  to  receive  the 
Prince  Alfonso,  who  was  on  his  way  to  the  camp  from  Murcia. 


♦ Cronica  Gotica,  L.  3,  § 13.  Cronica  General,  pt.  4.  Cronica  de  Santo  Key,  c.  55. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


107 


At  this  time  ten  Moorish  cavaliers,  of  the  brave  lineage  of  the 
Azules,  finding  the  Christian  camp  but  thinly  peopled,  came 
prowling  about,  seeking  where  they  might  make  a bold  inroad. 
As  they  were  on  the  lookout  they  came  to  that  part  of  the 
camp  where  were  the  tents  of  the  stout  Friar  Ferran  Ruyz, 
prior  of  the  hospital.  The  stout  prior,  and  his  fighting  breth- 
ren, were  as  good  at  foraging  as  fighting.  Around  their  quar- 
ters there  were  several  sleek  cows  grazing,  which  they  had 
carried  off  from  the  Moors.  When  the  Azules  saw  these,  they 
thought  to  make  a good  prize,  and  to  bear  off  the  prior’s  cattle 
as  a trophy.  Careering  lightly  round,  therefore,  between  the 
cattle  and  the  camp,  they  began  to  drive  them  toward  the  city. 
The  alarm  was  given  in  the  camp,  and  six  sturdy  friars  sallied 
forth,  on  foot,  with  two  cavaliers,  in  pursuit  of  the  marauders. 
The  prior  himself  was  roused  by  the  noise ; when  he  heard  that 
the  beeves  of  the  Church  were  in  danger  his  ire  was  kindled ; 
and  buckling  on  his  armor,  he  mounted  his  steed  and  galloped 
furiously  to  the  aid  of  his  valiant  friars,  and  the  rescue  of  his 
cattle.  The  Moors  attempted  to  urge  on  the  lagging  and  full- 
fed  kine,  but  finding  the  enemy  close  upon  them,  they  were 
obliged  to  abandon  their  spoil  among  the  olive-trees,  and  to  re- 
treat. The  prior  then  gave  the  cattle  in  charge  to  a squire,  to 
drive  them  back  to  the  camp.  He  would  have  returned  himself, 
but  his  friars  had  continued  on  for  some  distance.  The  stout 
prior,  therefore,  gave  spurs  to  his  horse  and  galloped  beyond 
them,  to  turn  them  back.  Suddenly  great  shouts  and  cries  arose 
before  and  behind  him,  and  an  ambuscade  of  Moors,  both  horse 
and  foot,  came  rushing  out  of  a ravine.  The  stout  Prior  of  San 
Juan  saw  that  there  was  no  retreat ; and  he  disdained  to  render 
himself  a prisoner.  Commending  himself  to  his  patron  saint, 
and  bracing  his  shield,  ho  charged  bravely  among  the  Moors, 
and  began  to  lay  about  him  with  a holy  zeal  of  spirit  and  a 
vigorous  arm  of  flesh.  Every  blow  that  he  gave  was  in  the 
name  of  San  Juan,  and  every  blow  laid  an  infidel  in  the  dust. 
His  friars,  seeing  the  peril  of  their  leader,  came  running  to  his 
aid,  accompanied  by  a number  of  cavaliers.  They  rushed 
into  the  fight,  shouting,  “ San  Juan!  San  Juan!”  and  began  to 
deal  such  sturdy  blows  as  savored  more  of  the  camp  than  of 
the  cloister.  Great  and  fierce  was  this  struggle  between  cowl 
and  turban.  The  ground  was  strewn  with  bodies  of  the  in- 
fidels ; but  the  Christians  were  a mere  handful  among  a multi- 
tude. A burly  friar,  commander  of  Sietefilla,  was  struck  to 
the  earth,  and  his  shaven  head  cleft  by  a blow  of  a scimetar,* 


108 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


several  squires  and  cavaliers,  to  the  number  of  twenty,  fell 
covered  with  wounds;  yet  still  the  stout  prior  and  his  brethren 
continued  fighting  with  desperate  fury,  shouting  incessantly, 
“San  Juan!  San  Juan!”  and  dealing  their  blows  with  as  good 
heart  as  they  had  ever  dealt  benedictions  on  their  followers. 

The  noise  of  this  skirmish,  and  holy  shouts  of  the  fighting 
friars,  resounded  through  the  camp.  The  alarm  was  given, 
“ The  Prior  of  San  Juan  is  surrounded  by  the  enemy!  To  the 
rescue!  to  the  rescue!”  The  whole  Christian  host  was  in 
agitation,  but  none  were  so  alert  as  those  holy  warriors  of  the 
Church,  Don  Garcai,  Bishop  of  Cordova,  and  Don  Sancho, 
Bishop  of  Coria.  Hastily  summoning  their  vassals,  horse  and 
foot,  they  bestrode  their  steeds,  with  cuirass  over  cassock,  and 
lance  instead  of  crosier,  and  set  off  at  full  gallop  to  the  rescue 
of  their  brother  saints.  When  the  Moors  saw  the  warrior 
bishops  and  their  retainers  scouring  to  the  field,  they  gave  over 
the  contest,  and  leaving  the  prior  and  his  companions,  they 
drew  off  toward  the  city.  Their  retreat  was  soon  changed  to  a 
headlong  flight ; for  the  bishops,  not  content  with  rescuing  the 
prior,  continued  in  pursuit  of  his  assailants.  The  Moorish 
foot-soldiers  were  soon  overtaken  and  either  slaughtered  or 
made  prisoners : nor  did  the  horsemen  make  good  their  retreat 
into  the  city,  until  the  powerful  arm  of  the  Church  had  visited 
their  rear  with  pious  vengeance.*  Nor  did  the  chastisement 
of  Heaven  end  here.  The  stout  prior  of  the  hospital,  being 
once  aroused,  was  full  of  ardor  and  enterprise.  Concerting 
with  the  Prince  Don  Enrique,  and  the  Masters  of  Calatrava 
and  Alcantara,  and  the  valiant  Lorenzo  Xuarez,  they  made  a 
sudden  assault  by  night  on  the  suburb  of  Seville  called  Benal- 
jofar,  and  broke  their  way  into  it  with  fire  and  sword.  The 
Moors  were  aroused  from  their  sleep  by  the  flames  of  their 
dwellings  and  the  shouts  of  the  Christians.  There  was  hard 
and  bloody  fighting.  The  prior  of  the  hospital,  with  his  valiant 
friars,  was  in  the  fiercest  of  the  action,  and  their  war-cry  of 
“ San  Juan!  San  Juan!”  was  heard  in  all  parts  of  the  suburb. 
Many  houses  were  burnt,  many  sacked,  many  Moors  slain  or 
taken  prisoners,  and  the  Christian  knights  and  warrior  friars, 
having  gathered  together  a great  cavalgada  of  the  flocks  and 
herds  which  were  in  the  suburb,  drove  it  off  in  triumph  to  the 
camp,  by  the  light  of  the  blazing  dwellings. 

A like  inroad  was  made  by  the  prior  and  the  same  cavaliers, 


* Croniea  General,  pt.  4,  p.  338. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


109 


a few  nights  afterward,  into  the  suburb  called  Macarena,  which 
they  laid  waste  in  like  manner,  bearing  off  wealthy  spoils. 
Such  was  the  pious  vengeance  which  the  Moors  brought  upon 
themselves  by  meddling  with  the  kine  of  the  stout  prior  of  the 
hospital. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

BRAVADO  OF  THE  THREE  CAVALIERS. — AMBUSH  AT  THE  BRIDGE 
OVER  THE  GUADAYRA. — DESPERATE  VALOR  OF  GARCI  PEREZ. — 
GRAND  ATTEMPT  OF  ADMIRAL  BONIFAZ  ON  THE  BRIDGE  OF 
BOATS. — SEVILLE  DISMEMBERED  FROM  TRIANA. 

Of  all  the  Christian  cavaliers  who  distinguished  themselves 
in  this  renowned  siege  of  Seville,  there  was  none  who  sur- 
passed in  valor  the  bold  Garci  Perez  de  Vargas.  This  hardy 
knight  was  truly  enamored  of  danger,  and  like  a gamester 
with  his  gold,  he  seemed  to  have  no  pleasure  of  his  life  except 
in  putting  it  in  constant  jeopardy.  One  of  the  greatest  friends 
of  Garci  Perez  was  Don  Lorenzo  Xuarez  Gallinato,  the  same 
who  had  boasted  of  the  valor  of  Garci  Perez  at  the  time  that 
he  exposed  himself  to  be  attacked  by  seven  Moorish  horsemen. 
They  were  not  merely  companions,  but  rivals  in  arms ; for  in 
this  siege  it  was  the  custom  among  the  Christian  knights  to 
vie  with  each  other  in  acts  of  daring  enterprise. 

One  morning,  as  Garci  Perez,  Don  Lorenzo  Xuarez,  and  a 
third  cavalier,  named  Alfonso  Tello,  were  on  horseback,  patrol- 
ling the  skirts  of  the  camp,  a friendly  contest  arose  between 
them  as  to  who  was  most  adventurous  in  arms.  To  settle  the 
question,  it  was  determined  to  put  the  proof  to  the  Moors,  by 
going  alone  and  striking  the  points  of  their  lances  in  the  gate 
of  the  city. 

No  sooner  was  this  mad  bravado  agreed  upon  than  they 
turned  the  reins  of  their  horses  and  made  for  Seville.  The 
Moorish  sentinels,  from  the  towers  of  the  gate,  saw  three 
Christian  knights  advancing  over  the  plain,  and  supposed 
them  to  be  messengers  or  deserters  from  the  army.  When  the 
cavaliers  drew  near,  each  struck  his  lance  against  the  gate, 
and  wheeling  round,  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  retreated.  The 
Moors,  considering  this  a scornful  defiance,  were  violently 


110 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


exasperatod,  and  sallied  forth  in  great  numbers  to  revenge  the 
insult.  They  soon  were  hard  on  the  traces  of  the  Christian 
cavaliers.  The  first  who  turned  to  fight  with  them  was  Alfonso 
Teilo,  being  of  a fiery  and  impatient  spirit.  The  second  was 
Garci  Perez ; the  third  was  Don  Lorenzo,  who  waited  until  the 
Moors  came  up  with  them,  when  he  braced  his  shield,  couched 
his  lance,  and  took  the  whole  brunt  of  their  charge.  A des- 
perate fight  took  place,  for  though  the  Moors  were  overwhelm- 
ing in  number,  the  cavaliers  were  three  of  the  most  valiant 
warriors  in  Spain.  The  conflict  was  beheld  from  the  camp. 
The  alarm  was  given ; the  Christian  cavaliers  hastened  to  the 
rescue  of  their  companions  in  arms ; squadron  after  squadron 
pressed  to  the  field,  the  Moors  poured  out  reinforcements  from 
the  gate ; in  this  way  a general  battle  ensued,  which  lasted  a 
great  part  of  the  day,  until  the  Moors  were  vanquished  and 
driven  within  their  walls. 

There  was  one  of  the  gates  of  Seville,  called  the  gate  of  the 
Alcazar,  which  led  out  to  a small  bridge  over  the  Guadayra. 
Out  of  this  gate  the  Moors  used  to  make  frequent  sallies, 
to  fall  suddenly  upon  the  Christian  camp,  or  to  sweep  off 
the  flocks  and  herds  about  its  outskirts,  and  then  to  scour 
back  to  the  bridge,  beyond  which  it  was  dangerous  to  pursue 
them. 

The  defence  of  this  part  of  the  camp  was  intrusted  to 
those  two  valiant  compeers  in  arms,  Garci  Perez  de  Vargas 
and  Don  Lorenzo  Xuarez ; and  they  determined  to  take  ample 
revenge  upon  the  Moors  for  all  the  depredations  they  had  com- 
mitted. They  chose,  therefore,  about  two  hundred  hardy 
cavaliers,  the  flower  of  those  seasoned  warriors  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  Guadalquivir,  who  formed  the  little  army 
of  the  good  Master  of  Santiago.  When  they  were  all  assem- 
bled together,  Don  Lorenzo  put  them  in  ambush,  in  the  way  by 
which  the  Moors  were  accustomed  to  pass  in  their  maraudings, 
and  he  instructed  them,  in  pursuing  the  Moors,  to  stop  at  the 
bridge,  and  by  no  means  to  pass  beyond  it ; for  between  it  and 
the  city  there  was  a great  host  of  the  enemy,  and  the  bridge 
was  so  narrow  that  to  retreat  over  i-t  would  be  perilous  in  the 
extreme.  This  order  was  given  to  all,  but  was  particularly 
intended  for  Garci  Perez,  to  restrain  his  daring  spirit,  which 
was  ever  apt  to  run  into  peril. 

They  had  not  been  long  in  ambush  when  they  heard  the  dis- 
tant tramp  of  the  enemy  upon  the  bridge,  and  found  that  the 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  TnE  SAINT. 


Ill 


Moors  were  upon  the  forage.  They  kept  concealed,  and  the 
Moors  passed  by  them  in  careless  and  irregular  manner,  as  men 
apprehending  no  danger.  Scarce  had  they  gone  by  when  the 
cavaliers  rushed  forth,  charged  into  the  midst  of  them,  and 
threw  them  all  into  confusion.  Many  were  killed  or  over- 
thrown in  the  shock,  the  rest  took  to  flight,  and  made  at  full 
speed  for  the  bridge.  Most  of  the  Christian  soldiers,  according 
to  orders,  stopped  at  the  bridge ; but  Don  Lorenzo,  with  a few 
of  his  cavaliers,  followed  the  enemy  half  way  across,  making 
great  havoc  in  that  narrow  pass.  Many  of  the  Moors,  in  their 
panic,  flung  themselves  from  the  bridge,  and  perished  in  the 
Guadayra;  others  were  cut  down  and  trampled  under  the  hoofs 
of  friends  and  foes.  Don  Lorenzo,  in  the  heat  of  the  fight, 
cried  aloud  incessantly,  defying  the  Moors,  and  proclaiming  his 
name,— 44  Turn  hither ! turn  hither!  ’Tis  I,  Lorenzo  Xuarez!” 
But  few  of  the  Moors  cared  to  look  him  in  the  face. 

Don  Lorenzo  now  returned  to  his  cavaliers,  but  on  looking 
round,  Garci  Perez  was  not  to  be  seen.  All  were  dismayed, 
fearing  some  evil  fortune  had  befallen  him ; when,  on  casting 
their  eyes  beyond  the  bridge,  they  saw  him  on  the  opposite 
side,  surrounded  by  Moors  and  fighting  with  desperate 
valor. 

4 4 Garci  Perez  has  deceived  us,”  said  Don  Lorenzo,  4 4 and  has 
passed  the  bridge,  contrary  to  agreement.  But  to  the  rescue, 
comrades ! Never  let  it  be  said  that  so  good  a cavalier  as  Garci 
Perez  was  lost  for  want  of  our  assistance.  ” So  saying,  they  all 
put  spurs  to  their  horses,  rushed  again  upon  the  bridge,  and 
broke  their  way  across,  cutting  down  and  overturning  the 
Moors,  and  driving  great  numbers  to  fling  themselves  into  the 
river.  When  the  Moors  who  had  surrounded  Garci  Perez  saw 
this  band  of  cavaliers  rushing  from  the  bridge,  they  turned  to 
defend  themselves.  The  contest  was  fierce,  but  broken ; many 
of  the  Moors  took  refuge  in  the  river,  but  the  Christians  fol- 
lowed and  slew  them  among  the  waves.  They  continued  fight- 
ing for  the  remainder  of  the  day,  quite  up  to  the  gate  of  the 
Alcazar;  and  if  the  chronicles  of  the  times  speak  with  their 
usual  veracity,  full  three  thousand  infidels  bit  the  dust  on  that 
occasion.  When  Don  Lorenzo  returned  to  the  camp,  and  was 
in  presence  of  the  king  and  of  numerous  cavaliers,  great  en- 
comiums were  passed  upon  his  valor ; but  he  modestly  replied 
that  Garci  Perez  had  that  day  made  them  good  soldiers  by 
force. 


112 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


From  that  time  forward  the  Moors  attempted  no  further  in- 
roads into  the  camp,  so  severe  a lesson  had  they  received  from 
these  brave  cavaliers.* 

The  city  of  Seville  was  connected  with  the  suburb  of  Triana 
by  a strong  bridge  of  boats,  fastened  together  by  massive 
chains  of  iron.  By  this  bridge  a constant  communication  was 
kept  up  between  Triana  and  the  city,  and  mutual  aid  and  sup- 
port passed  and  repassed.  While  this  bridge  remained,  it  was 
impossible  to  complete  the  investment  of  the  city,  or  to  cap- 
ture the  castle  of  Triana. 

The  bold  Admiral  Bonifaz  at  length  conceived  a plan  to 
break  this  bridge  asunder,  and  thus  to  cut  off  all  communica- 
tion between  the  city  and  Triana.  No  sooner  had  this  idea 
entered  his  mind  than  he  landed,  and  proceeded  with  great 
speed  to  the  royal  tent,  to  lay  it  before  the  king.  Then  a con- 
sultation was  summoned  by  the  king  of  ancient  mariners  and 
artificers  of  ships,  and  other  persons  learned  in  maritime 
affairs ; and  after  Admiral  Bonifaz  had  propounded  his  plan,  it 
was  thought  to  be  good,  and  all  preparations  were  made  to 
carry  it  into  effect.  The  admiral  took  two  of  his  largest  and 
strongest  ships,  and  fortified  them  at  the  prows  with  solid  tim- 
ber and  with  plates  of  iron ; and  he  put  within  them  a great 
number  of  chosen  men,  well  armed  and  provided  with  every- 
thing for  attack  and  defence.  Of  one  he  took  the  command 
himself.  It  w^as  the  third  day  of  May,  the  day  of  the  most 
Holy  Cross,  that  he  chose  for  this  grand  and  perilous  attempt ; 
and  the  pious  King  Fernando,  to  insure  success,  ordered  that  a 
cross  should  be  carried  as  a standard  at  the  mast-head  of  each 
ship. 

On  the  third  of  May,  toward  the  hour  of  noon,  the  two  ships 
descended  the  Guadalquivir  for  some  distance,  to  gain  room  to 
come  up  with  the  greater  violence.  Here  they  waited  the  rising 
of  the  tide,  and  as  soon  as  it  was  in  full  force,  and  a favorable 
wind  had  sprung  up  from  the  sea,  they  hoisted  anchor,  spread 
all  sail,  and  put  themselves  in  the  midst  of  the  current.  The 
whole  shores  were  lined  on  each  side  with  Christian  troops, 
watching  the  event  with  great  anxiety.  The  king  and  the 
Prince  Alfonso,  with  their  warriors,  on  the  one  side  had  drawn 
close  to  the  city  to  prevent  the  sallying  forth  of  the  Moors, 
while  the  good  Master  of  Santiago,  Don  Pelayo  Perez  Correa, 


* Cronica  General  de  Espafia,  pt.  4.  Cronica  del  Key  Fernando  el  Santo,  c.  60. 
Cronioa  Gotica,  T.  3,  p.  126. 


CHRONICLE  Ob  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


113 


kept  watch  upon  the  gates  of  Triana.  The  Moors  crowded  the 
tops  of  their  towers,  their  walls  and  house-tops,  and  prepared 
engines  and  weapons  of  all  kinds  to  overwhelm  the  ships  with 
destruction. 

Twice  the  bold  admiral  set  all  sail  and  started  on  his  career, 
and  twice  the  wind  died  away  before  he  had  proceeded  half  his 
course.  Shouts  of  joy  and  derision  rose  from  the  walls  and 
towers  of  Seville,  while  the  warriors  in  the  ships  began  to  fear 
that  their  attempt  would  be  unsuccessful.  At  length  a fresh 
and  strong  wind  arose  that  swelled  every  sail  and  sent  the 
ships  ploughing  up  the  waves  of  the  Guadalquivir.  A dead 
silence  prevailed  among  the  hosts  on  either  bank;  even  the 
Moors  remained  silent,  in  fixed  and  breathless  suspense. 
When  the  ships  arrived  within  reach  of  the  walls  of  the  city  and 
the  suburbs,  a tremendous  attack  was  commenced  from  every 
wall  and  tower ; great  engines  discharged  stones  and  offensive 
weapons  of  all  kinds,  and  flaming  pots  of  Greek  fire.  On  the 
tower  of  gold  were  stationed  catapults  and  vast  cross-bows  that 
were  worked  with  cranks,  and  from  hence  an  iron  shower 
was  rained  upon  the  ships.  The  Moors  in  Triana  were  equally 
active ; from  every  wall  and  turret,  from  house-tops,  and  from 
the  banks  of  the  river,  an  incessant  assault  was  kept  up  with 
catapults,  cross-bows,  slings,  darts,  and  everything  that  could 
annoy.  Through  all  this  tempest  of  war,  the  ships  kept  on 
their  course.  The  first  ship  which  arrived  struck  the  bridge 
on  the  part  toward  Triana.  The  shock  resounded  from  shore 
to  shore,  the  whole  fabric  trembled,  the  ship  recoiled  and 
reeled,  but  the  bridge  was  unbroken;  and  shouts  of  joy  rose 
from  the  Moors  on  each  side  of  the  river.  Immediately  after 
came  the  ship  of  the  admiral.  It  struck  the  bridge  just  about 
the  centre  with  a tremendous  crash.  The  iron  chains  which 
bound  the  boats  together  snapped  as  if  they  had  been  flax. 
The  boats  were  crushed  and  shattered  and  flung  wide  asunder, 
and  the  ship  of  the  admiral  proceeded  in  triumph  through  the 
open  space.  No  sooner  did  the  King  and  the  Prince  Alfonso  see 
the  success  of  the  admiral,  than  they  pressed  with  their  troops 
closely  round  the  city,  and  prevented  the  Moors  from  sallying 
forth ; while  the  ships,  having  accomplished  their  enterprise,  ex- 
tricated themselves  from  their  dangerous  situation,  and  returned 
in  triumph  to  their  accustomed  anchorage.  This  was  the  fatal 
blow  that  dismembered  Seville  from  Triana,  and  insured  the 
downfall  of  the  city. 


MOORISH  CHRONICLE, K 


114 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

INVESTMENT  OF  TRIANA. — GARCI  PEREZ  AND  THE  INFANZON. 

On  the  day  after  the  breaking  of  the  bridge,  the  king,  the 
Prince  Alfonso,  the  Prince  Enrique,  the  various  masters  of 
the  orders,  and  a great  part  of  the  army,  crossed  the  Guadal- 
quivir and  commenced  an  attack  on  Triana,  while  the  bold 
Admiral  Bonifaz  approached  with  his  ships  and  assaulted  the 
place  from  the  water.  But  the  Christian  army  was  unpro- 
vided with  ladders  or  machines  for  the  attack,  and  fought  to 
great  disadvantage.  The  Moors,  from  the  safe  shelter  of  their 
walls  and  towers,  rained  a shower  of  missiles  of  all  kinds.  As 
they  were  so  high  above  the  Christians,  their  arrows,  darts, 
and  lances  came  with  the  greater  force.  They  were  skilful 
with  the  cross-bow,  and  had  engines  of  such  force  that  the 
darts  which  they  discharged  would  sometimes  pass  through  a 
cavalier  all  armed,  and  bury  themselves  in  the  earth.* 

The  very  women  combated  from  the  walls,  and  hurled  down 
stones  that  crushed  the  warriors  beneath. 

While  the  army  was  closely  investing  Triana,  and  fierce 
encounters  were  daily  taking  place  between  Moor  and  Chris- 
tian, there  arrived  at  the  camp  a youthful  Infanzon,  or  noble, 
of  proud  lineage.  He  brought  with  him  a shining  train  of 
vassals,  all  newly  armed  and  appointed,  and  his  own  armor, 
all  fresh  and  lustrous,  showed  none  of  the  dents  and  bruises 
and  abuses  of  the  war.  As  this  gay  and  gorgeous  cavalier  was 
patrolling  the  camp,  with  several  cavaliers,  he  beheld  Garci 
Perez  pass  by,  in  armor  and  accoutrements  all  worn  and  soiled 
by  the  hard  service  he  had  performed,  and  he  saw  a similar 
device  to  his  own,  of  white  waves,  emblazoned  on  the 
scutcheon  of  this  unknown  warrior.  Then  the  nobleman  was 
highly  ruffled  and  incensed,  and  he  exclaimed,  “ How  is  this? 
who  is  this  sorry  cavalier  that  dares  to  bear  these  devices?  By 
my  faith,  he  must  either  give  them  up  or  show  his  reasons  for 
usurping  them.”  The  other  cavaliers  exclaimed,  “ Be  cautious 
how  you  speak ; this  is  Garci  Perez ; a braver  cavalier  wears 
not  sword  in  Spain.  For  all  he  goes  thus  modestly  and  quietly 


* Cronica  General,  pt.  4,  p.  341. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


115 


about,  he  is  a very  lion  in  the  field,  nor  does  he  assume  any- 
thing that  he  cannot  well  maintain.  Should  he  hear  this 
which  you  have  said,  trust  us  he  would  not  rest  quiet  until  he 
had  terrible  satisfaction.” 

Now  so  it  happened  that  certain  mischief-makers  carried 
word  to  Garci  Perez  of  what  the  nobleman  had  said,  expecting 
to  see  him  burst  into  fierce  indignation,  and  defy  the  other  to 
- the  field.  But  Garci  Perez  remained  tranquil,  and  said  not  % 
word. 

Within  a day  or  two  after,  there  was  a sally  from  the  castle 
of  Triana  and  a hot  skirmish  between  the  Moors  and  Chris- 
tians; and  Garci  Perez  and  the  Infanzon,  and  a number  of 
cavaliers,  pursued  the  Moors  up  to  the  barriers  of  the  castle. 
Here  the  enemy  rallied  and  made  a fierce  defence,  and  killed 
several  of  the  cavaliers.  But  Garci  Perez  put  spurs  to  his 
horse,  and  couching  his  lance,  charged  among  the  thickest  of 
the  foes,  and  followed  by  a handful  of  his  companions,  drove 
the  Moors  to  the  very  gates  of  Triana.  The  Moors  seeing  how 
few  were  their  pursuers,  turned  upon  them,  and  dealt  bravely 
with  sword  and  lance  and  mace,  while  stones  and  darts  and 
arrows  were  rained  down  from  the  towers  above  the  gates. 
At  length  the  Moors  took  refuge  within  the  walls,  leaving  the 
field  to  the  victorious  cavaliers.  Garci  Perez  drew  off  coolly 
and  calmly  amidst  a shower  of  missiles  from  the  wall,  tie 
came  out  of  the  battle  with  his  armor  all  battered  and  defaced ; 
his  helmet  was  bruised,  the  crest  broken  off,  and  his  buckler 
so  dented  and  shattered  that  the  device  could  scarcely  be  per- 
ceived. On  returning  to  the  barrier,  he  found  there  the  Infan- 
zon, with  his  armor  all  uninjured,  and  his  armorial  bearings 
as  fresh  as  if  just  emblazoned,  for  the  vaunting  warrior  had 
not  ventured  beyond  the  barrier.  Then  Garci  Perez  drew 
near  to  the  Infanzon,  and  eyeing  him  from  head  to  foot, 

‘ ‘ Senor  cavalier,”  said  he,  “ you  may  well  dispute  my  right  to 
wear  this  honorable  device  in  my  shield,  since  you  see  I take 
so  little  care  of  it  that  it  is  almost  destroyed.  You,  on  the 
other  hand,  are  worthy  of  bearing  it.  You  are  the  guardian 
angel  of  honor,  since  you  guard  it  so  carefully  as  to  put  it  to 
no  risk.  I will  only  observe  to  you  that  the  sword  kept  in  the 
scabbard  rusts,  and  the  valor  that  is  never  put  to  the  proof 
becomes  sullied.  ” * 

At  these  words  the  Infanzon  was  deeply  humiliated,  for  he 


* Cronica  General,  pt.  4.  Cronica  Gotica,  T.  3,  § 16. 


116 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


saw  that  Garci  Perez  had  heard  of  his  empty  speeches,  and  he 
felt  how  unworthily  he  had  spoken  of  so  valiant  and  magnani- 
mous a cavalier.  “ Senor  cavalier,”  said  he,  “pardon  my 
ignorance  and  presumption;  you  alone  are  worthy  of  bear- 
ing those  arms,  for  you  derive  not  nobility  from  them,  but 
ennoble  them  by  your  glorious  deeds.” 

Then  Garci  Perez  blushed  at  the  praises  he  had  thus  drawn 
upon  himself,  and  he  regretted  the  harshness  of  his  words  to- 
ward the  Infanzon,  and  he  not  merely  pardoned  him  all  that 
had  passed,  but  gave  him  his  hand  in  pledge  of  amity,  and  from 
that  time  they  were  close  friends  and  companions  in  arms.* 


CHAPTER  XX. 

CAPITULATION  OF  SEVILLE.— DISPERSION  OF  THE  MOORISH 
INHABITANTS.— TRIUMPHANT  ENTRY  OF  KING  FERNANDO. 

About  this  time  there  arrived  in  Seville  a Moorish  alfaqui, 
named  Orias,  with  a large  company  of  warriors,  who  came  to 
this  Avar  as  if  performing  a pilgrimage,  for  it  was  considered  a 
holy  Avar  no  less  by  infidels  than  Christians.  This  Orias  was  of 
a politic  and  crafty  nature,  and  he  suggested  to  the  comman- 
der of  SeA  ille  a stratagem  by  Avhich  they  might  get  Prince  Al- 
fonso in  their  power,  and  compel  King  Fernando  to  raise  the 
siege  by  way  of  ransom.  The  counsel  of  Orias  Avas  adopted, 
after  a consultation  with  the  principal  cavaliers,  and  measures 
taken  to  carry  it  into  execution ; a Moor  was  sent,  therefore, 
as  if  secretly  and  by  stealth,  to  Prince  Alfonso,  and  offered  to 
put  him  in  possession  of  two  towers  of  the  Avail,  if  he  would 
come  in  person  to  receive  them,  which  toAvers  once  in  his  pos- 
session, it  Avould  be  easy  to  overpower  the  city. 

Prince  Alfonso  listened  to  the  envoy  with  seeming  eagerness, 
but  suspected  some  deceit,  and  thought  it  unwise  to  put  his 
person  in  such  jeopardy.  Lest,  however,  there  should  be 
truth  in  his  proposals,  a party  of  chosen  ca\Taliers  were  sent  as 
if  to  take  possession  of  the  towers,  and  Avith  them  was  Don 
Pero  Nunez  de  Guzman,  disguised  as  the  prince. 

When  they  came  to  the  place  where  the  Moors  had 


* Cronica  General,  pt.  4.  Cronica  del  Rey  Santo.  Cronica  Gotica,  T.  3,  § 16. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


117 


appointed  to  meet  them,  they  beheld  a party  of  infidels, 
strongly  armed,  who  advanced  with  sinister  looks,  and 
attempted  to  surround  Don  Nunez,  but  he,  being  on  his  guard, 
put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and,  breaking  through  the  midst  of 
them,  escaped.  Ills  companions  followed  his  example,  all  but 
one,  who  was  struck  from  his  horse  and  cut  to  pieces  by  the 
Moors.* 

Just  after  this  event  there  arrived  a great  reinforcement  to 
the  camp  from  the  city  of  Cordova,  bringing  provisions  and 
various  munitions  of  war.  Finding  his  army  thus  increased, 
the  king  had  a consultation  with  Admiral  Bonifaz,  and  deter- 
mined completely  to  cut  off  all  communication  between  Seville 
and  Triana,  for  the  Moors  still  crossed  the  river  occasionally 
by  fording.  When  they  were  about  to  carry  their  plan  into 
effect,  the  crafty  Alfaqui  Orias  crossed  to  Triana,  accom- 
panied by  a number  of  Ganzules.  He  was  charged  with 
instructions  to  the  garrison,  and  to  concert  some  mode  of 
reuniting  their  forces,  or  of  effecting  some  blow  upon  the 
Christian  camp ; for  unless  they  could  effect  a union  and  co- 
operation, it  would  be  impossible  to  make  much  longer  resist- 
ance. 

Scarce  had  Orias  passed,  when  the  Christian  sentinels  gave 
notice.  Upon  this,  a detachment  of  the  Christian  army  imme- 
diately crossed  and  took  possession  of  the  opposite  shore,  and 
Admiral  Bonifaz  stationed  his  fleet  in  the  middle  of  the  river. 
Thus  the  return  of  Orias  was  prevented,  and  all  intercourse  be- 
tween the  places,  even  by  messenger,  completely  interrupted. 
The  city  and  Triana  were  now  severally  attacked,  and  unable 
to  render  each  other  assistance.  The  Moors  were  daily  dimi- 
nishing in  number ; many  slain  in  battle,  many  taken  captive, 
and  many  dying  of  hunger  and  disease.  The  Christian  forces 
were  daily  augmenting,  and  were  animated  by  continual 
success,  whereas  mutiny  and  sedition  began  to  break  out 
among  the  inhabitants  of  the  city.  The  Moorish  commander 
Axataf,  therefore,  seeing  all  further  resistance  vain,  sent  am- 
bassadors to  capitulate  with  King  Fernando.  It  was  a hard 
and  humiliating  struggle  to  resign  this  fair  city,  the  queen  of 
Andalusia,  the  seat  of  Moorish  sway  and  splendor,  and  which 
had  been  under  Moorish  domination  ever  since  the  conquest. 

The  valiant  Axataf  endeavored  to  make  various  conditions : 
that  Fernando  should  raise  the  siege  on  receiving  the  tribute 


* Cronica  General,  pt.  4,  p.  424. 


318 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


which  had  hitherto  been  paid  to  the  miramamolin.  This  being 
peremptorily  refused,  he  offered  to  give  up  a third  of  the  city, 
and  then  a half,  building  at  his  own  cost  a wall  to  divide  the 
Moorish  part  from  the  Christian.  King  Fernando,  however, 
would  listen  to  no  such  terms.  He  demanded  the  entire  surren- 
der of  the  place,  with  the  exception  of  the  persons  and  effects  of 
the  inhabitants,  and  permitting  the  commander  to  retain  pos- 
session of  St.  Lucar,  Aznal  Farache,  and  Niebla.  The  comman- 
der of  Seville  saw  the  sword  suspended  over  his  head,  and  had 
to  submit ; the  capitulations  of  the  surrender  were  signed,  when1 
Axataf  made  one  last  request,  that  he  might  be  permitted  to 
demolish  the  grand  mosque  and  the  principal  tower  (or  Giralda) 
of  the  city.*  He  felt  that  these  would  remain  perpetual  mon- 
uments of  his  disgrace.  The  Prince  Alfonso  was  present  when 
this  last  demand  was  made,  and  his  father  looked  at  him  sig- 
nificantly, as  if  he  desired  the  reply  to  come  from  his  lips.  The 
prince  rose  indignantly  and  exclaimed,  that  if  there  should  he 
a single  tile  missing  from  the  temple  or  a single  brick  from  the 
tower,  it  should  be  paid  by  so  many  lives  that  the  streets  of 
Seville  should  run  with  blood.  The  Moors  were  silenced  by 
this  reply,  and  prepared  with  heavy  hearts  to  fulfil  the  capitu- 
lation. One  month  was  allowed  them  for  the  purpose,  the 
alcazar  or  citadel  of  Seville  being  given  up  to  the  Christians  as 
a security. 

On  the  twenty-third  day  of  November  this  important  fortress 
was  surrendered,  after  a siege  of  eighteen  months.  A deputa- 
tion of  the  principal  Moors  came  forth  and  presented  King 
Fernando  with  the  keys  of  the  city;  at  the  same  time  the 
aljamia,  or  council  of  the  Jews,  presented  him  with  the  keys  of 
Jewry,  the  quarter  of  the  city  which  they  inhabited.  This  key 
was  notable  for  its  curious  workmanship.  It  was  formed  of  all 
kinds  of  metals.  The  guards  of  it  were  wrought  into  letters, 
bearing  the  following  signification, — “ God  will  open — the  king 
will  enter.”  On  the  ring  was  inscribed  in  Hebrew, — “The 
King  of  kings  will  enter ; all  the  world  will  behold  him.  ” This 
key  is  still  preserved  in  the  cathedral  of  Seville,  in  the  place 
where  repose  the  remains  of  the  sainted  King  Fernando,  f 


* Mariana,  L.  13,  c.  7. 

t In  Castile,  whenever  the  kings  entered  any  place  where  there  was  a synagogue, 
the  Jews  assembled  in  council  and  paid  to  the  Monteros,  or  bull-fighters,  twelve 
maravedis  each,  to  guard  them,  that  they  should  receive  no  harm  from  the  Chris- 
tians; being  held  in  such  contempt  and  odium,  that  it  wTas  necessary  they  should  be 
under  the  safeguard  of  the  king,  not  to  be  injured  or  insulted.  (Zuniga:  Annales  de 
Sevilla.) 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


119 


During  the  month  of  grace  the  Moors  sold  such  of  their 
effects  as  they  could  not  carry  with  them,  and  the  king  pro- 
vided vessels  for  such  as  chose  to  depart  for  Africa.  Upward 
of  one  hundred  thousand,  it  is  said,  were  thus  convoyed  by 
Admiral  Bonifaz,  while  upward  of  two  hundred  thousand  dis- 
persed themselves  throughout  such  of  the  territory  of  Andalu- 
sia as  still  remained  in  possession  of  the  Moors. 

When  the  month  was  expired,  and  the  city  was  evacuated 
by  its  Moorish  inhabitants,  King  Fernando  the  Saint  entered 
in  solemn  triumph,  in  a grand  religious  and  military  proces- 
sion. There  were  all  the  captains  and  cavaliers  of  the  army, 
in  shining  armor,  with  the  prelates,  and  masters  of  the  reli- 
gious and  military  orders,  and  the  nobility  of  Castile,  Leon,  and 
Aragon,  in  their  richest  apparel.  The  streets  resounded  with 
the  swelling  notes  of  martial  music  and  with  the  joyous  accla- 
mations of  the  multitude. 

In  the  midst  of  the  procession  was  the  venerable  effigy  of 
the  most  Holy  Mary,  on  a triumphal  car  of  silver,  wrought 
with  admirable  skill;  and  immediately  after  followed  the 
pious  king,  with  a drawn  sword  in  his  hand,  and  on  his  left 
was  Prince  Alfonso  and  the  other  princes. 

The  procession  advanced  to  the  principal  mosque,  which  had 
been  purified  and  consecrated  as  a Christian  temple,  where  the 
triumphal  car  of  the  Holy  Virgin  was  placed  at  the  grand 
altar.  Here  the  pious  king  knelt  and  returned  thanks  to 
Heaven  and  the  Virgin  for  this  signal  victory,  and  all  present 
chanted  Te  JDeum  Laudamus. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

DEATH  OF  KING  FERNANDO. 

When  King  Fernando  had  regulated  everything  for  the 
good  government  and  prosperity  of  Seville,  he  sallied  forth 
with  his  conquering  army  to  subdue  the  surrounding  country. 
He  soon  brought  under  subjection  Xerez,  Medina  Sidonia, 
Alua,  Bepel,  and  many  other  places  near  the  sea-coast ; some 
surrendered  voluntarily,  others  were  taken  by  force ; he  main- 
tained a strict  peace  with  his  vassal  the  King  of  Granada,  but 
finding  not  sufficient  scope  for  his  arms  in  Spain,  and  being 
inflamed  with  a holy  zeal  in  the  cause  of  the  faith,  he  detes- 


120 


MOORISH  CHRONICLES. 


mined  to  pass  over  into  Africa,  and  retaliate  upon  the  Mos 
lems  their  daring  invasion  of  his  country.  For  this  purpose 
he  ordered  a powerful  armada  to  be  prepared  in  the  ports  of 
Cantabria,  to  be  put  under  the  command  of  the  bold  Admiral 
Bonifaz. 

In  the  midst  of  his  preparations,  which  spread  consterna- 
tion throughout  Mauritania,  the  pious  king  fell  dangerously 
ill  at  Seville  of  a dropsy.  When  he  found  his  dying  hour  ap- 
proaching, he  made  his  death-bed  confession,  and  requested 
the  holy  Sacrament  to  be  administered  to  him.  A train  of 
bishops  and  other  clergy,  among  whom  was  his  son  Philip, 
Archbishop  of  Seville,  brought  the  Sacrament  into  his  pres- 
ence. The  king  rose  from  his  bed,  threw  himself  on  his  knees, 
with  a rope  round  his  neck  and  a crucifix  in  his  hand,  and 
poured  forth  his  soul  in  penitence  and  prayer.  Having  re- 
ceived the  viatica  and  the  holy  Sacrament,  he  commanded  all 
ornaments  of  royalty  to  be  taken  from  his  chamber.  He  as- 
sembled his  children  round  his  bedside,  and  blessed  his  son  the 
Prince  Alfonso,  as  his  first-born  and  the  heir  of  his  throne, 
giving  him  excellent  advice  for  the  government  of  his  king- 
dom, and  charging  him  to  protect  the  interests  of  his  brethren. 
The  pious  king  afterward  fell  into  an  ecstasy  or  trance,  in 
which  he  beheld  angels  watching  round  his  bed  to  bear  his 
soul  to  heaven.  He  awoke  from  this  in  a state  of  heavenly 
rapture,  and,  asking  for  a candle,  he  took  it  in  his  hand  and 
made  his  ultimate  profession  of  the  faith.  He  then  requested 
the  clergy  present  to  repeat  the  litanies,  and  to  chant  the  Te 
Deum  Laudamus.  In  chanting  the  first  verse  of  the  hymn, 
the  king  gently  inclined  his  head,  with  perfect  serenity  of 
countenance,  and  rendered  up  his  spirit.  “The  hymn,”  says 
the  ancient  chronicle,  “which  was  begun  on  earth  by  men, 
was  continued  by  the  voices  of  angels,  which  were  heard  by 
all  present.”  These  doubtless  were  the  angels  which  the  king 
in  his  ecstasy  had  beheld  around  his  couch,  and  which  now 
accompanied  him,  in  his  glorious  ascent  to  heaven,  with  songs 
of  holy  triumph.  Nor  was  it  in  his  chamber  alone  that  these 
voices  were  heard,  but  in  all  the  royal  alcazars  of  Seville,  the 
sweetest  voices  were  heard  in  the  air  and  seraphic  music,  as 
of  angelic  choirs,  at  the  moment  that  the  sainted  king  ex- 
pired.* He  died  on  the  30th  of  May,  the  vespers  of  the  Holy 


* Pablo  de  Espinosa:  Grandesas  de  Sevilla,  fol.  146.  Cronica  del  Santo  Rey,  c. 
7$,  Cronica  Gotica,  T.  3,  p.  166. 


CHRONICLE  OF  FERNANDO  THE  SAINT. 


121 


Trinity,  in  the  year  of  the  Incarnation  one  thousand  two  hun- 
dred and  forty-two,  aged  seventy-three  years — having  reigned 
thirty-five  years  over  Castile  and  twenty  over  Leon. 

Two  days  after  his  death  he  was  interred  in  his  royal  chapel 
in  the  Holy  Church,  in  a sepulchre  of  alabaster,  which  still 
remains.  It  is  asserted  by  grave  authors  that  at  the  time  of 
putting  his  body  in  the  sepulchre,  the  choir  of  angels  again 
was  heard  chanting  his  eulogium,  and  filling  the  air  with 
sweet  melody  in  praise  of  his  virtues.* 

When  Alhamar,  the  Moorish  King  of  Granada,  heard  of  his 
death,  he  caused  great  demonstrations  of  mourning  to  be  made 
throughout  his  dominions.  During  his  life  he  sent  yearly  a 
number  of  Moors  with  one  hundred  wax  tapers  to  assist  at  his 
exequies,  which  ceremony  was  observed  by  his  successors, 
until  the  time  of  the  conquest  of  Granada  by  Fernando  the 
Catholic,  t 


* Argoti  de  Molina:  Nobleza  de  Andaluzia,  L.  1,  c.  21.  Tomas  Bocio:  Signales  de 
la  Iglesia,  L.  20.  Don  Rodrigo  Sanchez,  Bishop  of  Palencia,  pt.  3,  c.  40. 
t Pablo  de  Espinosa,  fol.  146. 


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